


I Did What I Did

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 6x1 divergence, ALL OF IT, All the heavy shit, And everything else is warned, Bipolar Disorder, Canon rules apply, Depression, EMT Ian Gallagher, Eeek I don't know how to tag this, IF FICTION TRIGGERS YOU THEN DON'T READ FICTION, Ian Gallagher Redemption, Implied character death but it's not what you think it is, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Suicide Attempt, This was a one-shot and now it's not, like really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 104,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: NO FLUFF HERE.------So maybe one day. During all that. Maybe you sit on the couch with the memory of his face. A lone trickle of blood. It’s blurry. It was all blurry. But it was so clear. Every single part of it was so clear. And you were broken. Back then. You were broken then. And you glued yourself together with shitty school glue and taped down old fuzzy pieces of scotch tape haphazardly over all those broken parts and you kept moving. And you kept fucking up. And you kept going back for more. And it was still blurry and you never stopped being broken, did you?Maybe during all that. Maybe with all that running circles in your head and every image in your mind. And they were all pasted and taped and still broken. Maybe during. During that. Maybe that was when, that was when you decided enough was enough. And those pieces, those pieces would never be whole again. And that paste and that tape and those scars. They could never contain those wounds. Not now. Not then. Not ever.------Mickey finishes his full sentence for attempted murder and it doesn't go well.  I broke Mickey and now it's Ian's turn to put him back together... if he can.  He will, because in fiction it always ends well.





	1. I Did What I Did

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I am an asshole. READ THE CHAPTER WARNINGS. READ THE TAGS. READ THE NOTES. I'M GIVING YOU FAIR WARNING. THIS IS HEAVY. THIS IS GOING TO HURT LIKE HELL. BUT NO ONE DIES.
> 
> First chapter is a fill-in from 5x8 (the 'sorry I'm late' episode). From there it'll skip forward to a divergence at 6x1 after the visitation scene that we all hate so damn much. And Ian will begin redeeming himself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot. And now it's not. So be mindful of additional tags and warnings.

Fuck, fuck. Mickey dodges the red and blue lights. Ducking behind a dumpster in an alley. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Invading his throat and his mouth, echoing in his ears. His mouth full of ash and metal. 

The sirens reverberating through the streets. Person of interest. Person of interest over what? Fuck. 

Gotta ditch the clothes and hide the face. And fuck. Fuck. His shaking hands rise to grind into his eyes. Darkness in the city is never darkness but tonight, especially tonight it’s red and it’s blue and it’s screaming. It’s pulsing through his veins and pumping iron into his limbs. It’s red and blue and covered in blood and dirt and sweat and love and hate and lust and pain. It’s fucking pain. 

His breath catches in his throat when his hands come into focus. Red and rust and brown. FUCK U-UP highlighted in red. In red. Just like his hair. His hair. 

The breeze blows the scent of city down the alley. Garbage, human piled upon human piled upon human. Gas, oil, grease on the surface of the streets. Never sleeping. The city is never sleeping. 

Bile churns in his stomach. Lining his throat and he swallows hard. Forcing himself behind the dumpster. The minuscule amount of space between the dumpster and the bricks. The bricks scratching on the bare skin of his arms. Scratching and digging and stirring the fire ants back to life on his flesh. Biting and burning and nothing he can do can erase them or chase them away. Not anymore. It used to be his hand. It used to be his freckled warm hands. A simple touch, an unimportant touch, it would calm those ants. Those ants that have lived under his skin since that day. That day on the couch. The day his life, his life, the life he’s always lived crashed into his fantasy and his dream and his happiness. It crashed into his fantasy of love and lust and passion. It crashed into his dream of a future. It broke into his happiness with fists and growls, with a pistol and whore. 

And then that fantasy was gone. It was packing it’s bags and taking off for the Army. Leaving Mickey alone. Leaving Mickey alone to pick up the pieces he had shattered on the floor, stomped with his heal, left broken and bleeding and dying on the floor by kissing him. By pressing his warm, soft, tender lips against Mickey’s. He killed him. He killed him by loving him. 

And the fantasy was killed by his father and the whore. And the dream walked away. The dream walked away and left him. Proving that he was never in it for Mickey. He was in it for the thrill. He was in it for chase and the hunt and the desire. He wasn’t in it for Mickey. Not when Mickey needed him.

Tires on the pavement. Lights. Blue and red lights. Swirling and blurring and becoming the lights of the club. The lights dancing on Ian’s bare shoulders and his bare legs and his face. The face of a stranger in the flashing lights. The coldness and harshness and unloving, knowing he hadn’t thought a thing for Mickey, he hadn’t wondered about him. He hadn’t hoped he was doing okay. He hadn’t thought a fucking thing of Mickey when he was off fucking his way through boot camp and stripping for old fags and getting high and running off with his mother. He hadn’t once wondered if Mickey was okay. If he was okay. If he was okay living with his rapist and his whore and his pregnant wife. 

It was his fault. It was all his fault. With his delicate hands and his gentle touch and his kisses and his dares and his thrill. The thrill of feeling his hand wrapped around his and the thrill of feeling his lips pressed against his and the thrill of wanting more. Of wanting more. And the thrill of knowing it could be his. Happiness could be his. If he could just make it a few more weeks, if he could make a few more dollars, if he could get the fuck out. If he could get the fuck out of the Milkovich house. Then happiness could be his. And it could be okay that happiness and the dream and the desire were all wrapped up in his smile and his hair and his eyes. It could be okay that the love and lust and the need, the need for his touch, the need for his love. His love. It could be Mickey’s. 

But he left. He left. And then he was someone else. He was someone who looked at Mickey like a burden. Like he felt bad for him. Like he pitied him. Like he was some charity case. Like he was just some closet case who needed to be pushed out, who needed to admit it, who needed to be free. Like he was just a side project. Not a fantasy. 

Mickey watches the lights bouncing off the backdoor of the bar. He watches the lights and he remembers. He remembers his face. In the club. That dare in his eyes. His hand, his hand reaching for Mickey. His hand opening and reaching for Mickey. Like he wanted to touch him, like he wanted to feel him, like he desired him. Like he would do anything to touch him. 

So he did, he let him. He kissed him. And he felt it all crumble. All the walls he had built around his fortress. All the brick and mortar, all the wood, metal, concrete encasing his heart. It shattered, it shattered and sunk to his stomach as though it was never more than a glass case. It tickled his belly and it scratched his intestines and it burned Ian’s name through his guts and his skin and his breath. A hot poker through his beating heart.

He watches the patrol car disappear around the corner. And he makes a move. He moves. He dodges the ghosts of a memory. He ducks and runs and takes cover. 

He climbs a fire escape and he waits. He watches. He knows. He did it. He did it. It’s on his shirt and his hands and in his guilty veins.  
He’s drowning. He’s drowning in the smell and the sight and the sounds of it. He’s drowning in the feel and the pain. But the one thing missing. The one thing missing. Is regret. 

He did it. He did what he did and he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret the moment his hands clamped down on his neck. He doesn’t regret watching his face, the shock and surprise when Mickey didn’t let go. He doesn’t regret the feel of his hands, of the hands he loved, gripping and scratching and trying so fucking hard to rip his FUCK U-UP grip off his neck. His delicate neck. He doesn’t regret watching it. Watching it as the colors of his skin changed, and the cheeks flushed and drained and he doesn’t regret the moment he plunged the knife into his chest. Cutting into his heart. His heart that maybe once, maybe a long time ago, maybe a different lifetime, once, once it beat for Mickey. Mickey has to believe that. He has to believe that. 

Fuck. His hands are sticky. They’re sticky and they’re shaking as he reaches in his pockets. Hoping for keys. For a getaway. But fuck, the house is crawling with law now. By now they’ve put up the crime scene tape and Fiona is crying and Lip is muttering revenge and maybe the young ones understand. Maybe the little shits who aren’t tainted by life yet, maybe they understand. Maybe they could see it. Or maybe he’s the one who just showed them, he showed them the reality of living. He introduced them to brutal and violent and do whatever the fuck you can to survive until you don’t want to fucking survive anymore.

Fuck. When you cross the line. You get what you get.

And he didn’t want to be free. He didn’t want to be free. There was nothing free about that. There was nothing exhilarating about getting the shit kicked out of him again by his father. There was nothing exciting about it, nothing fulfilling or indulgent about it. There was no taste of freedom that night. There was only the taste of bitter and sour bile. Metal in his mouth. There’s always metal in his mouth. He can’t remember a time there wasn’t.

It was there. It was still there when he went home. When he went home and waited. He waited for his wife and her threats of bashing in his brains because she wanted what? She thought what? She thought they were true? She thought the vows were true? She thought the kid was his? She thought he’d love her eventually? She thought it would be one of those fucking arranged marriages and they’d end up growing old together and she’d end up something other than a fucking prostitute? A hand whore with a bastard child. Fuck.

And it was still there. The taste of metal. It was still there when he was sitting on the edge of his bed in his now nearly empty room. It was still there when Ian came in. When he came in and he started talking. And he started talking like it didn’t matter. Like none of it mattered. Like what Mickey had done, like what Mickey had said, like what Mickey had done to get him to stay, to stay, like it didn’t matter. 

That taste was still there when they fucked later. And it didn’t feel like it mattered. It didn’t feel like Ian saw it. Like he saw any of it. Like he saw the fists and the blood and the beatings and the pistol whipping and the threats. Like he never saw it at all. Like he never saw any of it. It was right there in front of his fucking face and he was blind to it. He never saw Mickey at all. He only saw the thrill. The chase. 

He only saw the fifteen year old that took a fucking bullet over him. He only saw the seventeen year old that got shot in the ass over him. He saw the bulletproof piece of trash that Mickey used to be. He didn’t see Mickey. He never saw him. He never saw him after his armor was ripped away and destroyed on the couch that day. He never saw what he was under that armor. 

A dollar. His last wrinkled dollar in his fist. Fuck, his last dollar. He’s lived his life off the last dollar. He’s always lived off the last dollar. And the last meal. And the last drink. And the last smile. And the last kiss. The last kiss. 

He’d give that fucking dollar for one last kiss. One last kiss, the night before. It was the last time. It was only the second time, but it was the last time. It was the last time Ian kissed him like he wanted him. Like he wanted Mickey. Like he wanted all of him. Like he wanted all the good and the bad and all the shit that would come with loving a piece of garbage who was fucked for life.

Then the fucked for life proved itself and he fuckin’ left.

He left.

Dawn is breaking. And the darkness will lift. And he has to move. He has to find a getaway before this becomes a manhunt. Before this becomes a full-blown manhunt. 

Clothes. Face. 

The window is open behind him. The window. And it ain’t the first time he’s broken into a place. Fucker is begging to be broken into with the window open. He ain’t here to kill again. He’s only here for clothes. And a hat. And maybe some car keys. 

He slides into the place. No dogs barking. It’s Southside, not a fuckin’ soul has an alarm. Not a soul has a thing worth stealing. Only thing he’ll face is the barrel of a gun if anything. Ain’t nothin’ new.

Peeling the bloodstained clothes off in the stranger’s bathroom. Not a fucking mark on him. Nothing more than the nail scratches and the crescents dug into his wrists. Fucker didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe he didn’t want to live.

Fuck, fuck him. Laying in Mickey’s bed unmoving and unspeaking for weeks. Mickey bathed him and fed him and forced him to drink water and laid behind him for how many fucking days breathing against his back, against the nobs of his spine, knowing he didn’t want to be touched, he didn’t want to be held, but he needed to know, he needed to feel, he needed to hear that Mickey was there and he wasn’t a burden. He wasn’t a burden. Never. 

But he was. 

Watching the browns and reds become pink and clear and swirl down the drain. Disappear. Disappear like the memories that are cutting sharper and deeper than any knife ever could. Just disappear. 

He slinks across the apartment. Exiting the way he entered. This time with a ball cap and a hooded sweatshirt. Even in the heat of summer. No one will look twice. This is the street. This is the street full of homeless and gangbangers and drug runners and no one here wants to be recognized. And he’ll blend right in. Hiding out in plain sight. 

Under the L. Under the L with the dirty misunderstood and undereducated masses. The addicts and the burnouts and the disenfranchised. The dreamers and the homos and the runners. The old, the young, and the dying. The infested and the injected and the injured. They’re all there. They’re all there. Every piece of trash that no one wanted but no one had the balls to put a fucking bullet in their skull and dump them in the river. 

In the river. He should have dumped him in the river. He should have weighed him down and dumped him the river. Watched as he sunk. Watched his face frozen in fear and peace and eternal slumber as it sunk in the transparent water. Watch it while it was dragged under by the currents. Until the red became black. And disappeared. Disappeared under the watery surface. 

Mickey saw a picture once of Lake Pontchartrain and he wanted to take Ian to New Orleans. He wanted to fish in that lake and he wanted to see Mardi Gras ‘cause he knew Ian would love that shit. And he wanted to be somewhere that none of it mattered. That none of it mattered. That he could be gay or not, that he could be a pimp or not, that he could be a thug or not, that he could be a piece of trash or not. And no one fucking cared. No one cared. Not a single fucking person cared. And he wanted Ian to do it with him. Maybe that would be freedom. Maybe that last wrinkled dollar that he’s lived his fucking life on could have bought him a trip to New Orleans one day. And maybe that one day should have come before his life caught up with him on the couch that morning. 

Maybe it should have come back then, back when Ian looked at him like he meant something. Like he saw something. Like he loved that something that he saw.

He closes his eyes. Under the L. For the day. He’ll hide here for the day. With the cities unwanted and unwashed. He’ll hide here. And tonight, he’ll make his move.

Rising in the blackness of his eyelids. Rising and coming into focus. Those green eyes. Those green eyes. The way they used to be. The way they’ve haunted Mickey since that night in the dugout. That hope and belief and lust and love and passion and the dream. The fantasy. The desire. It melts. It becomes nothing more than melting flesh, burning away from the black charred bones of the things he’s become.

Those eyes, the why? Why? Why are you doing this?

Because I came out for you. I came out for you. 

I took a bullet for you and I went to juvie for you and I took pellets for you and I still couldn’t leave you. I kissed you and I held you and I loved you. I was beaten and pistol whipped and raped for you. And you left. You left. You left like it was my choice. Like it was my decision. Like I was choosing her over you. You left like I had a fucking say in the matter. You left because you never saw me. You never saw me. 

And I chased after you. I came after you. I found you and I brought you home. I did that. I brought you home. And I kept you safe. I kept you safe. I did that. I kept you alive. I did that. I kept you whole and I kept you sane and I did that. 

And what did you do for me? What did you do for me? 

A tear rolls down his cheek and his breath quivers. 

A porn. A bareback porn. Like the stripping and the favors weren’t enough. No. Those weren’t enough. Porn. A fucking sleazy porn. Some old fucking queen waves a few hundred dollars at him and tells him to fuck a stranger. And he does it. He does it without a second fucking thought about Mickey. And what was he thinking while he was doing it? Was it about Mickey? Was he picturing Mickey while he was plowing some other dude’s ass? Did he kiss him? Did he touch him? Did he lick him and suck him and look him in the eye? Did he wrap his arms around him or grip his fingers? Did his hands dent the flesh at his hips and brand his heat into his veins? Did he put his mouth on him and slide his fingers in him and smile at him and tell him he wanted him? Did he tell him he was sexy and he was tight and he was hot and he was going to come for him? For him? 

Was it worth it? Was it worth the thrill?

Mickey fucking hopes so. It was worth it for him. It was worth it for him when his hands clamped down on his neck. When he choked him until the life was receding from his eyes and his breath was stopped and then he did it. He plunged the knife into his heart. He ripped his fucking heart out just like Ian had done to Mickey. 

Was it worth it? Was it worth the pain? 

Fuck. His eyes startle open when he’s jabbed in the ribs with something unforgiving. Blinking until a face comes into focus in front of him. A face with a cocky sneer, and it’s Terry telling him he’ll kill him and it’s Ian telling him he filmed a porn and it’s his mother telling him he’ll never amount to anything and it’s Mandy telling him he’s a pussy and it’s Svetlana telling him she’s pregnant and it’s Fiona telling him it’s bipolar.

“On your knees. Hands behind your head.”

And it’s Ian telling him he didn’t know where else to go. 

“I did what I did. I have no regrets.

And it’s Ian telling him he’s leaving for the Army.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

“I did what I did.”

And it’s Ian telling him he’ll only stay if he sucks his dick.

“Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

“I did what I did.”

And it’s those green eyes. It’s those green eyes screaming across his memories. Scorching his flesh and sending fire hurling through his veins. 

“You have the right to an attorney.”

“I did what I did.”

Out of time. It’s come down to this. The red of his hair and the red of his blood and the red of his touch. Red. Seduction, power, anger, lust, passion, violence, blood, fire. Energy, determination, death.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

“I did what I did.”

They’ll take me dead. If they get to take me at all.

“I did what I did,” he jolts to his feet and lunges for the cop. A gunshot echoes under the cement and bounces off the walls of a faraway image of a lake. A lake he wanted to take Ian to. 

But it doesn’t stop him. He’s been shot before. This ain’t nothing new. Taking a bullet for the man he loves. Loved. Loved him. He loved him so much it killed him. Maybe it killed them both. 

Another one. It’s hot and cold at the same time. It tears and it sears and it aches and it pulses. It’s sharp and it’s dull and he should have done it with the knife instead. He should have done it with the knife that was already smeared with Ian’s blood. Red. Passion, violence, and love. 

He lurches forward. One more. One more searing and tearing through his chest. And his hands rise. His hands that still have dried crusted blood under his nails. They rise and they grip and they press and they don’t stop the bleeding. Red. Fire, lust, anger. 

His knees hit the pavement. He doesn’t feel it. He only knows it. He only knows that he’s falling to his knees. He feels himself laugh as the taste of metal fills his mouth. The familiar taste of metal. He hears himself laugh. Dying here. Dying right here under the L with the bums. With the unwanted and unwashed and the unloved. Exactly where he fucking belongs. Fucked for life. Fucked forever. 

————

Mickey startles awake to the sound of the door slamming shut. Blinking hard at the descending darkness. Falling around him like the dream. Or the nightmare. He’s never certain anymore. Which is real and which is fake. Which is true and which is false.

Fingers grinding into his eyes, an image rising. An image that seems real. One that seems true. 

Frank used to drink angry.

Fuck. He takes a deep breath and forces away the pounding headache of a permanent hangover. Mouth dry and ashy. He reaches for his pack of smokes. Drags himself to seated and takes a deep breath. It shakes and he remembers it now. Blinking his way through the fog. Through the fog of the dream and the hate and the love and the passion and the memories lost and the memories found and life worth living and the life he’s not sure is worth living anymore. He’s not sure if any of it has been worth living since that morning on the couch. Since that night before. Since his armor was ripped off and his heart was left barely beating on the stained carpet. 

The L rumbles by, shaking the walls and forcing him to his feet. His body knows the motions. His brain knows the numbness. His passion knows the death. And his love knows the hate. He drags his clothes on. The dirty ones from the floor. He stumbles to the bathroom. Empties his bladder and brushes his teeth. Splashes water on his face and catches his eye in the mirror.

“I hate you,” he whispers to himself, to his reflection, to the man that was too pussy to stop him, the boy that was too pussy to run away. To take his fucking hand and run. Back then. Back when he looked at Mickey like Mickey mattered. Back then. Back before his life came back to the surface and his love was a red-haired fantasy with desire in his eyes and lust in his fingertips. To the man who married the whore who was called over by the rapist. To the idiot who chased and ran after and looked for and searched his face, who threw himself into the flames to pull him out of the fire. Who turned a blind eye to the things that hurt, the things that ached, the things that ripped his fucking heart out. He pretended he didn’t know. He pretended he didn’t care. He pretended he was still the dream, he was still the desire and the love and the lust. He pretended that one day, that someday, that one day, he’d see that again. He’d see Mickey. He’d see the Mickey he wanted way back in the dugout on a hot as balls summer night.

He takes his time walking down the summer sidewalk. Listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. Hating every single one of them. Hating where he’s headed. Hating himself for not being there. Hating himself for being here now as he pushes the door open and walks in. As his eyes scan over the form of the boy who used to love him. The boy who used to see him. The boy who used to understand him.  
He steps out of his shoes as those green eyes begin to haunt him again. Always, they will always haunt his dreams and his desires and his nightmares and his life. His life. 

He pulls his sweatshirt off and watches those eyes, those eyes, those eyes and he hopes, and thinks maybe someday they’ll see him again. But knows, as he whispers, “sorry I’m late,” but knows as he lowers himself to the mattress, knows they’ll never see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't blame me, blame Eric Church's Knives of New Orleans (I ripped off a good amount of lyrics in crafting this piece). It's a great song. Listen to it. Then listen to all his stuff. There's a song for every mood. 
> 
> I sat down thinking 'Circus' or 'Apocalypse' and this happened instead :)
> 
> I feel like I could do a million dream sequences of Mickey killing Ian and maybe some of Ian killing Mickey, but I won't. Could be a really great way to relieve some canon stress. 
> 
> Yeah, I don't know, if that were me standing in Mickey's shoes at the moment my lover told me he'd filmed a bareback porno on some sketchy ass site - I doubt I'd be responding nearly as gently as Mickey did. 
> 
> Alright, I don't feel like fighting in comments. And all of these are public - so love me or hate me, but everyone can see it. Either way, thanks for reading :)
> 
> And your kudos are my currency so let's get paid!


	2. The Writer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please allow me to introduce myself before we get into full swing here with this story.

The Writer

 

I am the writer.

I am the writer and I do not fear. I do not fear the brutal and the violent. I do not fear the blood and the pain. I do not fear the cardinal sins and the hate. I do not fear politics and war. I do not fear rape and murder. I do not fear ignorant and evil. 

I am the writer. 

I have left you breathless and sweating. I have left you afraid and alone. I have left you stained in the salt of tears. I have left you angry and nervous. I have left you tingling with pain and worry. I have made you smile and laugh. I have made your heart beat in your throat and your groins tingle. I have left a chill on your spine and goosebumps on your arms. 

I have been the breath on your neck that haunts your sleep and your dreams and your nightmares. I have been your mother and your father and your sister and your brother. I have been your best friend and your love. I have been your soulmate and your worst fear. I have been the demon that walks in shadows. I have been the man snapping the whip and swinging the macuahuitl. I have placed the barrel of a shotgun against your temple and pistol on the back of your head. I have been an IED and I have cut the vision from your head. 

I have been love and lust. I have been passion and kindness. I have been the one person who believed when no one else did. I have crushed and broken you until you are nothing more than a grain of sand in an ocean of rocks. 

I have been the needle in the vein when it was one more. It was one more, it was one more push, just one more push, just one more. I have been the drink when your throat was dry and your voice was hoarse and your head was pounding. 

I hove molested you and mutilated your flesh. I have forced you to rip the skin from your fingers. Your own blood like metal in your mouth and smeared across your teeth. I have been the fist in your stomach and the hands at your throat. I have been the men standing at your front door in uniform. I have been the noose around your neck.

I have locked you in a dungeon and burned your flesh. I have given you the pain that courses through your blood and your bones. You have bled and vomited and screamed while I laughed. You have thrown yourself at my mercy and I have heard nothing more than the breeze whispering through the green leaves of a summer tree outside my window in the darkness of a quiet country night. You have lay at my feet doing all but dying while I smiled and took a warm comforting sip of my silky brown coffee and steamed milk. You have cried and screamed and thrown things at me while I leaned back with the feeling of victory in my mind and settling on my chest. Because I broke you.

I broke you.

I broke you. And that is exactly what I set out to do. I have dragged you through the house by your hair and I have thrown you on the bed to rape you. I have slit your neck and left you to bleed on the kitchen floor. I have etched my mark into your chest and left you for dead on the Autumn’s forest floor. I have watched as you held a dying baby, burned alive by the war you fought. I have aborted your baby and cheated on your husband. I have killed your best friend with a bullet to the neck. I have allowed his blood to spurt out on your hands and slide down your arms and mingle with your own blood as you lay against a rock in a strange country in the dark of the night and bullets rained down on you like that time you lay in the dying September grass under the threat of a hailstorm and you didn’t feel it. You didn’t feel it because you were numb. You were numb because I broke you.

I broke you.

I have killed lovers and haters and misunderstood. I have killed heroes and villains and the addict you loved to hate. I have killed children and women, the old and the young. I have locked you in a jail cell and watched as you lost your mind. I have taken your heart and your soul and your identity. I have taken your joy and your hope and your love. I have turned you bitter and hateful and spiteful. And I have loved every single second of it. Because I broke you.

I broke you.

And when you were on your knees I kicked in your teeth.

And when you fell to your hands I traced my finger down your spine. I leaned over you and I whispered in your ear, ‘you are nothing’, and I put a gun in your hand. I put a gun in your hand and you, you, the survivor, the hero, the cockroach with the heart of gold; you, the lover and the hater and the passionate; you, the wanderer and the reader and the friend; you, the worker and the scholar and the drop-out; you, the savior and the saved and the damned; you. You are the one who pulled the trigger. 

I merely gave you the tool. A means to an end. I stood over you and I watched as the blood poured from your chest and the color drained from your face and your eyes glazed over. I stood there and watched the blood turn from red to brown and seep into the stained worn carpet on the floor of the house you grew up in. I watched as you became death and I became life, and I simply wondered, ‘enough?’

And you smiled at me. You smiled at me with blood-stained teeth and strength shining in your eyes and you told me, ‘never’. 

Never. It’ll never be enough. There is no end to pain, there is no end to loss, there is no end to life. It is simply an interlude. An interlude in which I make you believe you are whole, complete, loved. I make you feel secure and you smile in relief while I scrub the blood from the carpets and zip the body bag shut and lay shovel full after shovel full on the fresh grave. You take a deep breath and wipe your cheeks of dried salt as I take your hand and I place it in the hand of the person you love. The person you love even if they never loved you back. The person you love even if it is they who destroyed you. But it doesn't feel that way, does it? It doesn’t feel that way because I am the writer. I am the writer and I only made it feel the way I wanted to make it feel. And as the person you love closes their hand around yours, your heart beats a slow and steady rhythm, there I am. There I am breathing down your neck and promising you, promising you, ‘I’m not finished’. 

I am the writer. I do not fear. I do not fear the things that I create. And I create fear. Fear for your life, fear of your death. Fear that I will take his hand and slit his throat. Fear that I will put a bullet in her spine and toss her aside like a rag-doll. Fear that I will lick your bones dry and leave them white as pure driven snow lying in the dirt of a faraway desert. Fear that I will create your nightmares and dreams and delusions. Fear that I will force you to acknowledge the things you cannot bear to acknowledge. 

I am the writer. But do not blame me. I am not the creator. I am merely the pen on the paper and the whisper in your ear.

I am the writer. Do you trust me?

 

************

 

I’m going to ramble pre-work. I know I told you I’d never get this naked again for fanfiction awhile back, but this summer was, well, not what I planned for summer and not my typical sunny, lay in the sand and listen to the waves kind of summer.

I’ve been picking at this one for a few months now, taking breaks because it actually got too heavy for me, which doesn’t happen often because I’ve always viewed fiction as a safe place to explore the things that we maybe stifle in real life, or the things we’re unwilling to admit in real life. Among other things that fiction has done for me throughout the years, I’ve been able to put on the skins of people much braver and stronger than I. I’ve been able to see things in fiction that have opened my eyes to real struggles that people go through on a daily basis that I maybe didn’t know existed or I maybe never put the kind of respect in my heart for what these things deserve.

As a writer, the respect is the thing that needs to remain in tact. And I don’t fault people for writing whatever their heart desires, but for me, if you’re going to write about something heavy that deserves respect then you damn well better respect it and educate yourself about it before you share it. 

One of the things that Shameless sort of fucked up on. There were times when it was so clear that whoever wrote a particular storyline was so in key with the issue that they made us feel every single thing that was written into that episode. And some of the acting was absolutely brilliant and those actors brought it to a different level. And then there were episodes that left me wondering if the writer even knew what characters they were writing for. And some of the acting that made me go ‘who the fuck are you?’. 

I fell for these characters because I could relate. I started writing fanfic because some of the storylines pissed me off. Namely the way Mickey was treated in later seasons, and I can’t sort through my feelings for the coming season yet. If by some small miracle they do him the justice he deserves then I probably won’t feel the need to write him anymore - or at least not inside of any of canon’s confines. Let’s face it - he’s infuckingcredible to write for whether it’s in canon or in an AU. Even though for Mickey to remain Mickey he still has to have certain aspects of his early life in place even in an AU, but he’s still such a strong voice that he’s hard to replace. 

Alright, I’m going to go ahead and lay my cards on the table since I’ve been dancing around with these characters for awhile now and pulling the strings with them that I see fit - truth is I identify with them because I am the daughter of two alcoholics and I have an older sister who is unmedicated bipolar. 

Three very important things happened when I was twelve. It was the first time I actually connected my father to word alcoholic. And certainly through the years having that label has helped in ways, but it doesn’t reverse the harm of knowing your parents have and will always love the booze more than they could ever love you. That was the same year my sister was diagnosed bipolar (she’s not to the extreme of Ian’s canon diagnosis but really, all you have to read excerpts from Gorilla and Bird and you’ll understand why Ian’s diagnosis was portrayed and written exceptionally at times). And the thing to always keep in mind, two people can have the exact same diagnosis but they will have their own particular ways in which these things manifest because no two human brains are the same. And the third thing that happened that year is that I turned to writing to create my own little worlds and help me figure out how to cope when my father was screaming in my face about how much of a waste of space I’ll always be and when my sister sounded like she stepped straight of The Exorcist while trying to punch her way through the glass of the French doors. And I couldn’t turn to my mother to explain these things because she was drunk enough by seven pm every night that we’d have the same conversation three times within a fifteen minute period and then she’d ask me again ten minutes later the same question I’d already answered three times.

I’d sit in my room, legs bent under me, toes lodged in the crack under the door since the door didn’t latch, and I’d write. And write. Not journaling like your typical angsty teen. Poems mostly. There were three friends privy to my deepest thoughts at that time, my dog and two cats. 

Throughout the years my mother made my father apologize the day after a belittling rant, and he’d never look me in the eye. I was eighteen when I told him I would never accept another apology from him until the drinking changed. My mother never made my sister apologize for any of the things her disorder took from not only her, but from us, as her family. Fast forward twenty years, he’s in congestive heart failure and hasn’t quit drinking. My sister blows into town, bringing with her a tornado that sits in the middle of my chest and tosses everything around me into uncertainty, she lives here for two years and then she touches down elsewhere for two years before she lands at home again. She came back this September. She’s made her choices to not learn her disorder and not control it, just as my parents have made their choice and their choice has always been alcohol. 

There are three of us girls and two of the three of us are doing just fine. I have my incredible husband to thank for that. He’s the first person in my life who proved to me that I am lovable. And sometimes he proves it a little too much even when I’m doing things like swiping the mantle full of picture frames and figurines, causing broken glass to fly all over our living room. Standing there bleeding on the carpet and turning into a stone wall to prepare myself for him to realize just how unlovable I am. But, well, he’s an asshole and he’ll just pick up the glass with his bare hands and shampoo the carpet and at three in the morning we’ll be bleeding, laughing, cleaning and crying when we both have to get out of bed for work the next day. His number one rule is to never go to bed mad. As much as I hate him for that rule, it’s an important one because I spent my childhood going to bed mad - and that isn’t what love is. 

So this summer with the impeding storm of my sister touching down in the center of my life once more, the signs of my father’s failing health becoming too much to ignore, and add to that a suicidal cousin who ended up checking himself in for a seventy-two hour stint in the psych ward. He is now trying to figure out how to deal with his depression in a way that does not involve drinking. And fuck me for hoping he does it, because my hope has been lost on my father and my sister. 

I’m not sharing this to get sympathy or pity - ‘cause fuck that shit - I’m sharing it to give you a peak inside my headspace as I was writing this piece. It is not complete yet, but I want to force myself to post it before the season since I don’t know if I’ll write anymore after, and I always say if one person makes it to the end then it was worth the post. And I suppose if one person can identify or come away with a different view, or see something in a character they maybe never saw before; then that makes this shit worth it as well.

Fair warning - I broke Mickey. All this time I’ve been writing him I was starting to think he was unbreakable. One of the things that you need to know about the characters you write is how to break them. I know how to break my OC’s, and I always break them. It’s how you fall in love with someone in fiction. If you see them at their absolute most broken, and you watch them rebuild even though they’ll never be perfect, then you learn how fucking strong they are. One of the things about breaking a character like Mickey is that it forces someone like Ian to step up for him. And even if Ian is the thing that finally broke him, fuck, I love when Ian steps up to the plate and puts him back together. 

So I became Bane in the this work. “I was wondering what would break first. Your spirit or your body…”

So you’ve been warned. Tread lightly and don’t freak out at me, because you know damn well that I fix the things I break and I respect the topics I write, and now you know my full motivations for taking these characters for so many journeys. I’ll note more shit as I go and I don’t blame you if this gets too heavy and you have to back out - just make like you were never here.

I feel as though I have enough light shit sitting on my desktop at this point to even things out. Between I’d Be Waiting with a honeymoon on the beach, Boys Will Be Boys with a Halloween update, and The Circus with all it’s bundling Mickey in love glory; that it’s an okay time to post this. While I enjoy the light shit from time to time, my heart lies in darkness and darkness is a safe thing to explore in fiction. So either bail out now and I’ll see you on one of the others, or strap in - we’re heading into the darkest depths of depression. And we’re going to take our sweet time in healing it. If you do come along for this ride, your comments and support will mean the world to me and they will definitely effect whether or not I finish posting this. Just keep in mind that I only break the ones I love the most, and we know Mickey is strong enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I'm already hating myself for doing this. And I'll stop treating things like journal entries, I just didn't really know how else to give you guys the right head's up. And keep an eye on chapter warnings, tags will be added but if you see anything I missed feel free to let me know. I'm going to sweat right through this one, so a simple 'keep going' can go a long way.


	3. Bent And Broken

Bent And Broken

Eleven Years Later

 

Ian stands on the front porch of the Milkovich house watching his hand linger over the brown wooden door. Fisted, lingering, waiting. Listening to the typical Milkovich noise inside the house. The laugher, the shouts, the music. He takes a deep breath and he watches his hand make contact with the door. Once. Twice. Three times.

And waits. He wonders at how many times he’s just pushed this door open and walked in. How many times he opened this door to the life he thought he wanted with the man he thought he loved and the child he thought he could care for. 

He knocks again. And waits. He takes a step back and shifts his posture. Strengthening his shoulders, standing steady and strong. He’s ready, he’s told himself a hundred times he’s ready. He’s ready. And he wants this. Now, he wants this. He’s ready to apologize and he wants to.

The sound of beer cans being crushed under foot and shoes kicked out of the way. The grumbling and stumbling of a drunkard. It could be any of them. It could be any one of them. Ian’s not even sure who lives here anymore. But he knows the feeling in his stomach. And the fluttering in his chest that he’s trying like hell to stifle and ignore and pretend it doesn’t exist. It never existed. Because if it existed then how could he explain this? How could he explain any of this? The leaving and the abandoning and the forcing and the pushing. How could he explain the demands and the ultimatums? And how, how in the world could he explain the pain?

The door swings open. He’s expecting a high brow and a narrowed ‘get fucked Gallagher’. And he deserves that. He does.

What he’s not expecting is the breath to catch in his throat, the heart to drop to his stomach and the world to disappear beneath his feet. When those blue eyes land on him. And they’re empty. He’s not even certain he recognizes him. And maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe ten years is a long time. And maybe, ‘yeah, sure Mick, I’ll wait’, maybe it was the worst fucking lie he’s ever spoken. 

His eyes squint into the sun and he sways standing still, “Gallagher?”

And he’s fifteen again, pressing a tire iron into his back and wondering how fucking gorgeous he is and how he’d never noticed it before.

Ian swallows the years that have balled themselves up in his throat along with bile and panic and the urge to run, “Mick.”

He flinches before he can stop himself. His hand rises to thumb his nose and drops for a cig. He takes the steps out onto the porch, stumbling. His skin looks weird, not the prefect pale white of virgin snow. When Ian blinks he sees the constellation of freckles on his shoulder and he wonders if anyone else ever has, if anyone else ever has touched that constellation and pressed their lips against that constellation.

He leans against the porch railing and lights a smoke. One hand cupping, blocking the wind and Ian’s eyes are skimmed across the fingers he took for granted. The tattoos are gone. Replaced by deep scars that look like a combination of cutting and burning. It makes Ian’s chest hurt and any words that he wanted to say have disappeared. His mouth feels dry and tastes like the ash falling off the tip of Mickey’s cigarette. 

He notices Ian’s eyes on his fingers and his mouth opens. It opens and remains that way but no words come out. Nothing at all, just a slow moving puff of smoke that Ian could reach out and touch. But if he touched the smoke, he’d keep reaching. He’d not stop until he brushed his thumb over his lips, across his jaw, over his ear and slid his fingers through his hair. His hair. It’s still black but a knot twists it’s way through Ian’s stomach hard when he sees a streak of silver on his temple. He’s barely over thirty. Fuck, did Ian ever know when Mickey’s birthday was? 

Ian’s breath shudders and Mickey’s eyes are drawn to the sound. Lingering on his lips for a long silent moment. Waiting for him to speak? 

This time when the hand drops with the cig between his fingers, Ian notices fresh track marks in his arm. He averts his eyes before Mickey sees him looking, scuffing his toe across the floorboards and wondering how many times they did this before? Stand on the porch and share a smoke. A few laughs. Sometimes something more. Sometimes a memory that Mickey was too afraid to whisper in the air inside, like it could find it’s way to Yev and destroy his innocence, like Mickey’s life could linger over that baby like a black cloud that stifled his childhood. 

“I, um, I heard you were out,” he finally hears his own voice in his head. And it sounds like the dumbest thing he could have said. And it sounds like something Mickey will snark a remark back at him and then playfully shove his shoulder or roughly drag his hands through his hair or maybe even drag his lips to his level and leave a bed of smoldering coals in his chest. 

He snorts out a laugh, “yeah man,” the drunken swaying is the rhythm of his words, “I’m fuckin’ out. Waving my fuckin’ rainbow flag at Pride, didn’t see me there? Huh? I’m fuckin’ out and proud man. Attendin’ a benefit for the LGBT hood kids and everything,” his face is smiling, the smile of a man who is drunk or high or both. The smile of a man who is shredding his last shred of sanity and standing on the ledge waiting for the wind. When the smile fades and his hand rises again with the smoke, he stares at it, at the orange tip of it lingering in the air between them for a long moment. A flash of an image. An orange tip in the air, an orange tip being jabbed in the air as punctuation to his statement, ‘she’s ‘onna fuck the faggot outta you kid’, and it burns acid through his soul while his eyes linger on Mickey’s brows. Waiting, waiting for them to rise or fall or convey anything. Anything at all. 

His focus shifts suddenly as he brings the smoke to his lips. Ian watches his cheeks sink in, and he wonders if he’s ever seen him this thin before. If he’s ever considered him gaunt. Even when he was young and he was stealing to eat. Even then he had the perfect amount of pillow on his lips and he still had cheeks. Even when he was hungry and being beat and being degraded, even then, he was never gaunt. 

Fuck. Ian’s chin quivers and he turns his head quickly, blinking hard into the mid summer breeze carrying the scent of the city, the scent of home down the corridor of the Southside street.

“You mean out of prison,” his voice is steady, every time he speaks Ian can smell smoke and whiskey, “missed the welcome home party by about six months.”

“Six months?” scrolling through his mind of where has the time gone? Where has the time gone? Between work and a boyfriend and Fiona leaving, and taking care of the house and Lip having two kids, and Debbie and Franny, and Carl taking off a few months ago and no one’s seen him since. And Liam, Liam is in college now. And he’s doing fucking great. Ian knew, he knew someone in the lineup, someone had to do it, “Frank died,” it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it and he’s not sure why, he’s not even sure why he’s still standing here anymore. Or even why he came in the first place. 

What happened? What happened to us?

“Good for you,” he grumbles it towards the stack of empty beer bottles in the corner. 

Were we just too young to understand? 

“Fiona left a few years ago. She’s been living in Florida. Managing a resort now.”

His bottom lip is being dragged along his teeth. It’s like he’s typing some kind of code into his own flesh and Ian’s never been able to decipher it.

“Lip is married. Has two kids. Moved out of the Southside, his wife is…”

This is where Mickey should be cutting him off. Should be saying something like, ‘you come here to chit chat or you gonna get on me?’ But he doesn’t. 

He shrugs, “she’s okay. Debbie is a welder. She has a daughter who is eight now. She’s really great.”

Maybe there should be something about, ‘look, if I wanted Gallagher family updates I’d get on social media or some fuck’. But there’s not.

“Carl, I, um, I don’t know. He um…” got into drugs? Got into legal trouble? Took off before it could catch him? Took off before he could end up behind bars? Like you. 

Ian’s eyes linger on Mickey’s lips, a tiny splotch of red blood being dragged into his mouth from his lip and his fingers reach for a second smoke. Always, he always has to have something for his hands or his mouth or his lips. Always grabbing and holding and twisting and bending and breaking. And breaking himself but never broken. 

“Liam finished his first year of college.”

Nothing. He watches his fingers again, flicking the lighter, cupping around the flame. And his chest constricts and his breathing halts when he watches those fingers. Those fingers that always knew when to reach out, when to touch, when to work through his hair or grasp his wrist when a blade or a bat was clenched in his hand.

FUCK U-UP. Not anymore. And it burns in his throat with all the things he should say and all the things he should have done. And that lie. The lie that fell out of his mouth so easily. It fell out so fucking easily. And it echoed through the phone and it worked it’s way into Mickey’s ear and he looked so relieved. He looked so fucking relieved. 

The world shrinks into the neighborhood and the neighborhood tightens it’s grip and lessens it’s scope and the only things left in this entire fucking world are the two men standing on the front porch of the place they both referred to once as home. And Ian wonders if the only time it ever felt like home, the only time it ever truly felt like home, like a place where Mickey wanted to be, wanted to come home to, wanted to truly live and enjoy living; if the only time was the time that Ian called it home too. And it tears through his spine and his heart lodges itself firmly in his throat as his eyes lock onto the burned and sliced skin on his fingers and the image of his chest, of his chest and his new ink, of his chest and his infected ink, of his chest and the misspelled name, of his chest and the look of pride on his face, and the look of love in his eyes, and the announcement made that Ian didn’t force him to make. Ian didn’t force him to make it, and he made it that time and all Ian could do was look on in disgust. 

Everything in the universe comes to a slow grinding halt and everything inside Ian’s body is rolled up and tied into a knot in the pit of his stomach while his eyes remain on the fingers. The fingers where he cut and burned off his own tattoos. And he wonders, and he thinks, and he knows, and it all becomes so cloudy and so clear and it cuts through the air between them like a metal blade of a knife glinting in the late afternoon summer sun. His chest. His chest and all the things that tattoo would have meant in a place like prison, all the wrath and hatred that tattoo would have laid down on him in a place like prison. All the ignorance and damnation a tattoo like that would have rained on him in a place like prison. 

Ian’s butt hits the porch, he didn’t tell himself to sit down, he didn’t even know he was doing it. The world is getting dim, the bile is rising in his stomach. 

Would it have been so hard? Would it have been so fucking hard to just visit? Would it have been so fucking hard to just answer the fucking phone when it rang? How long? How long did he keep calling? How many times, how many times did he call and you didn’t answer? How many times, how many days, how many weeks, how many months did he keep trying? And how many times did you think of him? How long did it take before you were moving on? How long did it take before you forgot he existed? 

And how long did it take to break him?

The noise of the house shatters through the panic-blind questions in his head, the door has opened. And he feels Mickey’s presence receding. He feels him leaving. He feels him walking away. He hears the door closing and it feels so much more permanent than just a wooden door. Just a wooden door that is never locked because everyone in the Southside knows not to fuck with the Milkoviches. It’s never locked because there’s nothing worth taking, there’s nothing worth stealing. It’s never locked because the only things of value in that house are the guns and the guns are locked up, or they’re in the grip of a piece of fucking trash who isn’t afraid to shoot an intruder. Or a piece of trash who is too drunk or too high to know or care who is coming in the door, they just shoot in that general direction and it gets the point across. 

“Fuck,” it stutters and hisses and falters out of his mouth and he wonders, he wonders, of all the fucking things he wanted from Mickey, of all the things he needed from Mickey, of all the things he took from Mickey, he wonders how he was never broken before, how he was never broken under the weight of his father and his siblings and his dead mother and his hunger and his ragged clothes and his steal and scrounge and survive. How he was never broken under the weight that Ian only added, he only added weight to those broad shoulders. He never carried any of his own. He never helped carry any of Mickey’s. He only piled more and took the ground out from beneath his feet and when he fell, he didn’t bother reaching out for his hand. And when he was sinking, he just walked right past him. And when he was dying, when he was dying behind bars and over a phone line and through a pencil on a piece of paper, when he was dying alone and afraid and cutting off his own skin to get rid of the ink, when he was dying and still breathing when he was nothing more than a still beating heart alone in a prison visitor’s area, alone and waiting. Of all the ways and all the things and all the lies, of all of it, every single moment, of all the things Ian only harmed a boy who had already been harmed in more ways than Ian could ever imagine. Of all of it, Ian was the thing, Ian was the one thing that finally broke him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely not trying to say that all bipolar people are is a burden - and we saw Mickey trying like hell to keep it together in canon for Ian and we saw Ian off and on meds and all I can hope for in canon for Ian is that he'll own it and control it and learn how to live with a heavy diagnosis because we know he's strong enough to do that.


	4. Once Upon A Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT

Once Upon A Time

 

He knew this day would come. He knew this day would come the moment he earned his job. He knew this day would come. 

The red and white lights swirling, bouncing off the front of the house, the porch steps where he sat hundreds of times, the rail he’s leaned against hundreds of times. The door he’s opened and closed thousands of times. 

The sirens echoing down the street and sidewalk. Reverberating off the house. The house he lived in. The house he lived in with the man he thought he loved. The house where they lived together raising his son. The house where he took care of him, where he kept him alive and fed and clean when he couldn’t do it himself. Where he kept him from killing a man, where he kept him from throwing his life away.

And he knew, Ian knew, this day would come. This day when he’s rushing in the front door and he knows he’s going to enter the house to do his job. To do his job. To keep the injured alive. To keep the scene under control. To get the victim to the hospital and hand them over to the right personnel there to keep them alive. 

And he knew, he knew that this day would come. And he would enter the scene and see the face of someone he knew once upon a time. Once upon a time in an old worn down house under a screeching L. Once upon a time in a home where they loved and they laughed and they lived to the fucking fullest because they always loved like it was the last day of their lives. Because they knew, they both knew, they knew that the moments worth remembering would be rare. That was the life they were born to. That was the painful truth of the live they led. And how many of those moments were crushed by the disorder, or by his father, or his wife, or his child, or the nature or nurture, or the cycle of poverty and the cycle of abuse, and the cycle of addiction? How many of those moments were crushed by the things they couldn’t control or the things Ian didn’t want to control? 

He knew this day would come. He knew this day would come when he would be standing over Iggy after an OD. Or Colin after an accidental or on purpose shooting. Or Mandy after a boyfriend beat her nearly to death. Or Terry himself after he got what he deserved, what he had coming. 

He knew this day would come. He just didn’t know how this day would destroy him. 

“Mickey,” he hears his own voice distant in his ears, the name foreign on his tongue but lingering in every corridor of his mind and his memories. His past so solidly woven together with the man lying bleeding on the floor. On the floor only feet from where he was that day, that day when he was broken on that couch. That couch. That couch where he had let Ian kiss him, really truly kiss him for the first time. That couch where Ian had rocked the baby to sleep on nights that he was too manic to rest and the baby was just being a baby. That couch where they had watched movies and shared beers and smiled. Played video games and talked shit and laughed. 

And now? And right now, Ian’s hand is landing on that couch, it’s resting there as he lowers himself to the floor. Down to one knee. The training and the years on the job are forcing his actions, he knows the job, he knows the routine and this is just another patient.

But his eyes are pulled to that ocean of blue that he thought he’d spend his life floating on. Open, wide open and staring at the ceiling. He hears himself again, his own voice, and it sounds so fucking far away, “Mickey,” while his hands are busy at work, busy doing the job he’s trained to do, and his voice sounds so desperate when he says again, “Mickey,” this time it’s louder but it’s weak and it’s shaky, “please don’t do this,” and he’s seventeen and he’s watching the boy he loves walking down the aisle. But this time he won’t look at him. He can’t look at him. 

“Look at me Mick, please,” would you at least look at me? 

Fuck, he watches his hand rise, his hand that’s covered in blood, covered in Mickey’s blood, it’s rising, it’s rising to touch his cheek, “look at me,” it shakes and catches in his throat.

“Gallagher, do your job,” Sue’s voice cuts into his fog but just barely, “focus.”

Focus. Focus. Focus on the blood and the breathing and the movement of his chest. Of his chest. Of his chest with a bullet wound in it. Of his chest through the glass, through the glass with the tattoo, with the brand new ink. Of his chest now. His chest now as Sue is cutting off his shirt and his chest, his chest is soaked in blood and the bullet hole is directly over his heart and his chest. His chest where there are layers upon layers of burned and cut and sliced skin. Where once there was a name. Where once there was a name in black ink. Where once there was a name. 

His name. 

His breath catches, his throat constricts, his stomach churns. His back teeth feel like they’re floating in his mouth and his eyes won’t, can’t, won’t focus. His hands are steady and his hands know the job. His hands are doing the things he’s trained to do. And his eyes keep locking on to those blue ones. Those blue ones that he has said so many things to, and done so many things to and hurt, and hurt, and kept fucking hurting instead of having the caring to let him go, to let him go before Ian could destroy that beautiful heart. 

The scent of a cigarette wafts though the air and his eyes follow the trail to see Iggy in a dim corner. His hand scratching distractingly at his arm, his eyes darting between Ian and his bleeding brother on the floor of the house they grew up in. The house where they were hit and screamed at and beaten and belittled. The house where they watched their mother die. They watched their own childhood ripped away from them. And they tried so fucking hard to keep on moving, to keep on existing, to keep on surviving. But now, now, “what did you do?” his voice is clear and his eyes are locked onto Iggy’s beady ones, wide and searching, “what did you do?!”

“Gallagher, focus,” she’s calm and she’s collected and she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know, she has no fucking idea.

“What the fuck did you do?!” he’s to his feet without telling himself to move and he can hear Sue hollering at him and he doesn’t listen. He can’t listen. HIs blood-stained gloved hands are clamped down on Iggy’s neck and he’s shoving him against the wall. And he feels the heat of the cigarette near his wrist where Iggy is trying to pry his hands off him, and he wonders, he wonders of all the burns on Mickey’s body, of all the burns that Ian had mapped out at one point, once, a long time ago, maybe a lifetime ago, of all the burns, were any of them from his brother?

“What the fuck did you do?!” he’s clamping down tighter and his face is merely inches from Iggy’s and every time a word slithers out of his mouth, he shakes Iggy, “what the fuck did you do?!”

“Gallagher! I’m losing him!”

I’ve already lost him. I lost him so long ago. And I never came back for him.

“What did you do?” this time it’s weak and it’s pleading and his hand is releasing and Iggy is sliding to the floor, gasping for air.

And he’s whispering, and he’s choking, and he’s rasping, “he did it himself.”

Every thing, every single thing, every single part of this universe disappears and the floor drops out from beneath him and his stomach violates his will and violates his job and violates his trust as he rushes to the kitchen just in time to vomit into the sink. And this isn’t the job, this isn’t the trained paramedic, this isn’t the guy that everyone loves to ride with because he always keeps his cool and he never loses his temper and he never lets go of a victim and he never, he never gets shaken. 

But he is shaken. He is shaken to his very fucking core. And the world is shaken and his life is shaken and every single thing he’s ever known, every single thing he ever thought he knew about himself is dying on that floor. On that floor. And every single smile and every single laugh and every single sideways glance is flashing through his mind and reeling in his stomach and he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand. This is not Mickey. This is not Mickey. This is not the shit-talking bitch-slapping piece of Southside trash that Ian loved. He loved him then. He loved him, didn’t he? 

If you loved him then why did you ignore his existence when he needed you the most?

He heaves until it’s nothing but bile and self-loathing rising and gagging and he knows, he knows he has to go back over there and do his job. Even if it’s only to zip the body bag and exit the house, even if it’s only to take the body to the hospital for the declaration of death and the autopsy. Even if that’s all it is, even if that’s all it is. The end, if it’s the end. Then he has to be there, he has to be here. He has to pick up the pieces that he stomped on like Mickey was nothing more than a thin layer of ice on a winter’s puddle, beautifully cracked and shattered but somehow still together and perfect before Ian’s heel carelessly destroyed it and sent the sharpened shards into a world where it could never be whole again and it could never hold itself together again. 

He drops to his knees once again and his voice is shaking and his eyes are locked onto the ones he saw through the glass, through the glass. And the ones he saw in the dugout on a hot as balls summer night and the ones he saw in the psych ward and the ones he saw on that couch that morning and the night before and the ones he never fucking saw. He never saw them at all, did he?

“Mick, please,” his hand drops down to his arm, it drops to find his hand, his hand, his hand with the burned and scraped and sliced off tattoos that always used to be enough of a threat that most who knew him wouldn’t fuck with him because they knew, they knew it wasn’t a threat at all, it was a fucking promise, it was a fucking warning and he had earned the right to make that promise and follow through on that warning. His fingers slide into that hand and he was right, Iggy was right, the gun is still in his hand. It is still in his hand that is lying limp on the floor, on the carpet, on the floor of this house where they thought they could live free and happy and they could love and care and they could so something more than just survive. Just survive one horror to live another. How fucking young and stupid were they? 

He slides the gun off his open palm, leaving it there on the floor where the red and maroon blood is turning brown and black and there’s too much. It’s too much.

“Mickey please don’t do this.”

“You are not helping Gallagher,” Sue’s voice is urgent and she’s desperate and she doesn’t understand. 

If this wasn’t the fucking Southside if this wasn’t the fucking shitstained portion of Chicago where this shit is daily and this shit is expected and this shit is in every house and they all stopped caring. And they all stopped hurrying when they got a call to this house or that house, when they knew the families and they knew the domestic disputes and they knew the drugged up shitheads and they knew the black eyes and the bloody knuckles and they stopped fucking caring enough to come when backup was called. They stopped fucking caring. 

So Ian has to care. And Ian has to act. And Ian has to save this life. This is the life he was meant to save. This is the life he has been trying to save since he was fourteen fucking years old. This is the life he needs, he needs to save. Because he needs this man, he needs this man. He needs him. And maybe it’s taken this, maybe it’s taken this right here to understand, to recognize, to see as plain as fucking day that he failed him. He was supposed to love him. And he failed him. 

————

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hisses at him, dragging him out of the ER, where they’ve handed off the patient, where they’ve done their job, where their part of the life-saving is over and it’s time, it’s time to leave and let the doctors work. But he can’t. He can’t. 

“I can’t leave,” he gasps it, and his hands are shaking when he grips her wrists at his chest, “I can’t leave. I left him too many times and I can’t leave.”

“What are you talking about? You know him? You know him and you didn’t bother…”

“I love him,” it’s barely a whisper, the truth has always been barely a whisper, “I need to stay.”

Her eyes soften but her grip doesn’t release, “if you know him, if you care for him, you cannot stay in here. You know that. You know how this will most likely turn out. He is barely hanging on. He’s probably…”

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it.”

“Ian, he tried to take his own life. And he is pretty fucking close to succeeding. And there is not a reason to keep trying if he…”

“Stop,” it shakes and his eyes blur with tears and his stomach knots again, “you don’t know that. You don’t…”

“The gun was still in his hand Gallagher. The wound. It’s, shit, it is clear that it was a suicide attempt. How much resource can we burn up on someone who doesn’t want to live anyway?”

The machines are beeping and buzzing in his ears and his heart is lodged in his throat and his mind is swirling with so many things, so many moments. Too many things, too many moments and never enough. Never enough moments. 

He feels his lip tremble and his knees give out from beneath him. Amid all the hustling of emergency staff and the rushing in his body, every single moment, every single moment he took for granted. Every single smile and kiss and touch and it is all circling back to that morning, that morning on the couch. That morning when his life was shattered and he watched as the boy he loved was ripped apart. That morning as his eyes landed on Ian’s while the whore was grinding in his lap, fuck, and he didn’t see it, he didn’t see it. He didn’t see the things he was trying to tell him, silently tell him, the things that he just wanted Ian to see. He just wanted Ian to see that he loved him. That Mickey loved him enough to endure a rape, he loved him enough to stand up to his father, he loved him enough to take a chance and put his heart on the line and put his life on the line and he loved him enough to keep them both alive when Terry could have so easily ended their lives right there and right then. And how many times after, how many times after did Mickey put his own life in danger for Ian? How many times after Ian turned away from him, away from his silent pleading on the couch, he turned away, and how many times did Mickey come after him when Ian needed him? When Ian didn’t even know and didn’t even acknowledge and when he pretended that he didn’t need Mickey. When he pretended he didn’t need anyone at all. And Mickey kept coming for him. He kept showing up and he kept being there. 

And what did Ian do for him?

His entire body shudders as all the images rise. And fuck, fuck, if this is how things are left, if this is the end, if this is the last moment of that man’s life, Ian has no one to blame but himself.


	5. Our Brother

Our Brother

 

“How the fuck did you let this happen?!” she tries to scream it, but her voice shakes and her brother’s eyes land on hers. He shrugs, his mouth opens though she doesn’t want to hear it. Her hand rises, it rises hard and quick and connects with his jaw and forces his head to turn but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t gasp or sigh or do anything at all. Only stands there. 

So her hand rises again. And it connects again and he doesn’t do anything. Again.

And his cheek is red and his jaw is clenched and she remembers watching this. She remembers watching this. This exact thing, so many times, so many times. She remembers watching Terry’s fist as it connected with his jaw or his stomach or his chest, she remembers watching his hands clamp down on his throat. She remembers him never fighting back. He never fought back. And she remembers the first time he stopped flinching. He stopped flinching. 

They all stopped. They all stopped eventually. 

Her eyes well and she backs away. Hands shaking as she shoves them into her pockets. Gaze staying on Iggy’s face. She has become her father. In this moment she has become her father. 

“Fuck, Iggy, how did this happen?” her shaking hands rise and slide through her hair. her stomach is knotted and her mouth is dry.

He won’t meet her gaze. His cheek gets sucked into his teeth and he gnaws on it for so fucking long, her hand clenches into a fist again. Deep breath. A deep breath.

“What happened?”

“He was ‘onna pop a piss test.”

“What? How does that have anything to do with,” her hand shoots out of her side and now he flinches. Fuck. She swallows hard, quieting her tone, “how does a drug test have anything to do with,” voice choking off. She can’t finish the sentence, she can’t finish the thought. 

“Figure he’d rather kill himself than go back,” it’s barely a whisper, eyes on the floor, shifting now to her shoes. Slowly climbing up her legs but not moving past her knees. Maybe he’s still looking for the scars from the day Dad dragged her through the house on her knees, his hand twisted through her hair. She doesn’t even remember why. 

“Mickey’s not like that. Mickey’s not the type to just…”

“Fuck you,” his eyes snap to meet hers now. Burning with anger and resent, “you don’t know,” he hisses, “you don’t know him anymore. You don’t know what he,” his voice trails off and his eyes wander to the door of the waiting room. They stay there, a low warning, “you don’t know him anymore,” as his shoulders square off and he braces himself. 

She knows the stance. She knows what he’s waiting for. He’s watching the incoming attack. And he knows, he’s known all his life when the other shoe will drop. And he knows right now, he knows what’s coming. 

Her stomach drops to her ass and tears jump to her eyes. Her hand rises this time, this time she doesn’t stop it, this time it’s reaching, this time it’s reaching for his and it’s grasping to that last thing, the last thing that can keep her here, that can keep the tears at bay and the acid in her stomach when they’re both on the verge of rising hard and quick. 

She takes a deep breath and she follows his lead, squaring off her shoulders. This is it. Turning around. Turning around right now and knowing. Knowing, one way or the other, one way or the other. 

“Mikhailo Milkovich?”

“Yes, that’s us,” she breathes it, quivering and breaking, “he’s our brother.”

The woman nods, “let’s have a seat,” she’s wearing a white coat and her name is embroidered above the pocket. It’s blurring and so is the room but something in the background catches her eye. Something, someone, a part of the past. A part of the past that is edging closer.

“No, we’ll stand,” she hears herself say and her focus shifts back to the woman whose eyes are round and hazel. 

“Your brother was brought in with a bullet wound to his chest. The bullet was lodged…”

“Just tell us if he’s alive,” she blurts it and Iggy’s hand clamps down on hers. She feels it through all the crashing and glass shattering in her mind.

“He’s not out of the woods yet. But they’ve removed the bullet. They are still in surgery, if his heart is strong enough to beat on it’s own, he will still need to be on a ventilator for an undetermined amount of time. We are uncertain of brain damage.”

“Brain damage?”

“His brain was deprived of oxygen. We don’t know for how long. If he…”

“No if. There is no if,” her voice doesn’t shake but her insides are trembling and her focus is shifting from the woman’s brown eyes to the man taking a seat nearby. Close enough to hear the conversation. His elbows to his knees, his hands covering his face as he leans forward. 

“Okay,” she sighs, and Mandy knows she wants to tell her to be realistic, to understand the risk or the truth or the uncertainty, “I will give you an update as soon as I have one,” she nods, her hand comes out and it lands on Mandy’s forearm while her face twists into something resembling a supportive smile. 

She waits. She waits until the woman is gone. Her eyes scan over to the clock on the wall. Like the only places on Earth anymore that have wall clocks are prisons, hospitals, and schools. Places were no one wants to fucking be.

She can feel her brother beside her. She wonders at how they’ve never been close. Forced allies but never friends. Friends. Another stab of pain reverberates through her chest. The same stab that’s been echoing in every cavern of her soul since Iggy called her hours ago and she got on the first flight out. Begging her way on board and crying like a bitch at the ticket counter. Every breath she’s taken since that moment has stalled in her throat and her brother’s pain has mimicked itself inside her body. 

Friends. Her breath quivers, squeezing Iggy’s hand before she slides over to the line of chairs. The line of chairs that are empty and she sits in the one directly next to the only occupied one. She leans back until her head meets the wall and her body is sagged. And she listens. Over the blood rushing in her ears and the panic that’s been seated on her chest and snaking through her stomach. She listens to the man next to her. The man she hasn’t seen in over a decade. 

She listens as his weight shifts and his head is leaned against the wall beside her. She listens to him sigh, and it chokes off and she can’t look at his face. Knowing there are tear stains and his eyes are glittering and rimmed in red. She doesn’t know him anymore. She stopped knowing him twelve years ago. She stopped knowing him. She stopped knowing her own brother. He was nothing more than a phone call once a week from prison. From prison where everything is surface, where nothing matters, nothing can matter. And he always sounded so sad. And of all the things her brother was throughout his life, sad was never one of them. He was angry and he was passionate and he was a fucking survivor. He was just like her. And she was just like him. 

But he stopped at some point. He stopped. He stopped calling. And she stopped caring. She stopped thinking about him. Why? Why? 

Because it was too hard. It was too hard knowing he was defeated. And there was nothing she could do about it. But this, this thing now, right now, she didn’t know. She didn’t know.

“Was it you?” she finally wonders, her fingers sliding over the sleeve of his first responder jacket.

“Yeah,” he sighs it. And he doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. Neither does she. Maybe they owe each other nothing. Nothing anymore. 

But as her hand slides down his sleeve and finds his, as her fingers slip into his and she takes a deep breath, as the quaking in her stomach calms for the first time since the words exited Iggy’s lips, she wonders, she thinks, she knows. She knows they don’t owe each other a thing. But they owe her brother. They owe her brother now. They owe him so much.


	6. I Happened

I Happened

 

Ian’s never really been sure why the expression is butterflies in the stomach. It’s always felt more like a hummingbird trapped and frantic. Jabbing with it’s long beak and beating away with it’s hectic flapping of wings. 

Frantic, hectic, “shit,” the timer on his watch has gone off. When did it go off? Did he silence it? Did he ignore it? Did he fall asleep in the waiting room chair at some point? His hand is shaking when he slides his phone out of his pocket, “pick up, pick up,” he hears himself whispering to Debbie’s ringing phone.

“What?”

“I need a favor.”

“Ian, seriously, I am on my way out the door.”

“I know. I took my backup dose of meds last night and I need you to bring the pill organizer to the hospital. I’ll meet you in the ER parking lot. It’ll only tack on about ten extra minutes, it’s not even out of the way of your route.”

He expects resistance and a snobby tone, but she shocks the hell out of him with, “are you okay?”

“Am I okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, your shift was over last night. Right? And you’re at the hospital.”

He tries to take a deep breath but it breaks off in his mouth and he hides his face in his hand, “fuck, I don’t know Debs. Just. Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. I just, I can’t miss my pills.”

“I know. I’ll be there. You need something to eat too?”

“No, no I can just stop at the cafeteria here.”

“No you can’t. That shit is nasty. I’ll pack something.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

She’s gone before he can whisper, “thank you.”

————

He’s been pacing the parking lot for about fifteen minutes before he sees her turning in. Waving frantically at her, hoping he doesn’t look like Monica. Fuck, he better not look like Monica. He is not Monica.

She doesn’t drive through the loading zone, she turns towards the parking spots. Shit, she didn’t see him and now she’ll be late for work and it’ll be his fault. 

“Shit, Debs,” he starts when he’s jogging towards her car and she’s getting out, “I’m sorry. You’re going to be late.”

“No, it’s fine,” her hand lands reassuringly on his arm, though he can barely feel it past the panic that’s been circling his mind and racing through his veins. Through the layers of the uniform, “just take a breath Ian. It’s fine. I called in. I dropped Franny at school, and I’m staying here with you.”

“What? Why? No, you can’t afford to lose hours Debs. You can’t, you just have to, you did enough by bringing…”

“Take a fucking breath Ian,” her hand shifts from his arm to his chest and she presses down hard enough that he feels the pressure this time, and he feels the pain, he feels the fear and the worry and it all crushes down around him and his head meets her shoulder and he can’t stop the sobbing once it starts. 

But Debbie doesn’t falter. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t interrupt to tell him to take his damn meds, to eat his food, and, shit, probably take a sedative and take the afternoon off for a trip to la la land. She rubs his back with her free hand, she has no idea what’s going on, she has no idea why he’s here, Ian’s not even sure she remembers much of Mickey. Why would she? He was just another stop in the revolving door of the Gallagher household. Just another boyfriend of another sibling, just another mouth, just another body, just another person who appeared and disappeared and was never acknowledged again. 

“It was Mickey,” he hears himself whisper against her ear.

“Mickey? Milkovich?”

He nods, “he, um, he shot himself.”

“What? But that’s not, he’s not…”

“I know. He’s not the type to give up. I don’t know Debs. I just, I don’t know.”

“Jesus Ian. I,” her voice chokes off, and falls to a whisper, “I was, fuck, did he get out? He was in for ten years right? So ten years is… what happened to him?”

“I did,” he admits quietly to maybe the only person he can admit that to, “I happened to him.”


	7. You Weren't There

You Weren’t There

 

Debbie has seen her brother a lot of things. She’s seen him happy, she’s seen him angry, she’s seen him manic, she’s seen him depressed, she’s seen him proud and hopeful and helpful and loving. But the one thing she’s never seen. The one thing she’s never seen until today, is desperate. Today as he stood in the parking lot with his face buried in her shoulder and tears soaking her neck, today as he admitted all the things, everything he ever did, all the ways he wronged the only man he ever loved. And how last night, last night watching the life drain out of him, seeing him lying nearly dead or maybe all dead on the floor of the house he called home for months, seeing how easily it could all end before he could make things right; seeing that was what finally made him understand. 

————

“He’s ‘onna go back in man,” Iggy’s nervous voice and nervous hand, both shaking as he brings a cigarette to his mouth, leaning back against the bricks at his back.

“No, we have time,” Mandy insists, “he’s going to be in ICU for fuck knows how long. They can’t just drag him out of here when he’s still on fucking life support and throw him behind bars.”

“Well, as soon as he’s good enough…”

“I’ll find him a lawyer,” Debbie hears herself announce. They both look at her like they aren’t even sure she’s allowed to be part of the conversation, or maybe even who she is. 

“The fuck ‘re you?” of course he wouldn’t remember her. He has no reason to.

I’m Debbie and I’m the reason your brother ended up with such a long fucking sentence in the first place. I had just as much to do with the Sammi thing as he did, if not more, and he took the full blame. I know he did. Because he’s that kind of guy.

“Debbie. Gallagher. Ian’s sister.”

“‘Course you are,” he half sneers at her, “the fuck makes you think you can find a lawyer who gives a shit? And the fuck makes you think we can afford it?”

“I don’t, I mean, I don’t know for sure. But I…” owe him? Fuck, I owe him my teen years, “I know someone.”

His snicker is cut off by the burning white stick being brought to his lips again and he doesn’t say anything but his expression is a clear ‘fuck off’ as his focus shifts back to Mandy, “shoulda let him go.”

“What?” her hand clenches into a fist at her side, jaw taut with anger, “the fuck you just say?”

“Shoulda let him go Mandy,” he repeats, this time louder. This time firm and certain, “he ain’t gonna make another stint behind bars. Fuck, I don’ even think he’ll make another fuckin’ stint at life on the outside.”

“What the fuck does that even mean? And why the fuck didn’t you tell me about any of this shit sooner?”

The sneer turns amused and a laugh escapes him, slow drag, the smoke rolling delicately through his nose, “the fuck you think I meant when I tol’ you he was fucked up? You even fuckin’ hear me? Or were you too busy suckin’ your boss’s dick?”

“Fuck you,” hisses through her lips and her eyes like blue sea glass burn through her brother.

His eyebrows rise while he looks her over. Debbie never really thought they looked much alike, but right now she can tell clear as fucking day that these are Mickey’s siblings.

“Arguing isn’t going to help,” she announces, knowing she’s butting into family business that she has no right to butt into, but too many times she watched her own siblings self destruct instead of helping each other when they truly needed it, “take a break. Mandy’s right, they aren’t going to haul him out of ICU and lock him up. And it’s not Iggy’s fault. Let’s keep that in mind.”

Mandy’s eyes land on Debbie for a flicker of a moment before they roll away, mumbling, “you sound just like your fucking brother,” but there’s a hint of respect in it, “so what? We just wait until he wakes up? Ask him what he wants?”

“Ain’t like we can pull the plug when there’s no plug to pull.”

“That’s fucked up Iggy. Don’t say shit like that.”

He shrugs, “just sayin’.”

“Just saying we should get a do-not-resuscitate order on him now? Just in fucking case? Is that what you’re hoping for?”

“No. But it’s what he was hoping for.”

“How the fuck do you even know that? How the fuck do you know, was it planned? Did he tell you he was going to fucking shoot himself?”

“No,” he spits a stream at the ground to his left, “you think I wouldn’t’ve stopped ‘im?”

“It’s starting to sound that way.”

His eyes go blank but they stay steady on his sister, “you weren’t the one…” he trails off, bringing the smoke to his lips again, voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you weren’t there.”

————

Ian’s eyes keep darting over to the door, then his hand rises, and he chews on the tip of his thumb and his eyes drift again. Over the room, taking inventory of every single thing in the room. And it starts over.

“Ian,” her hand lands on his when it starts to rise again, forcing it away from his teeth, “have you slept yet?”

“What?”

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look at me.”

When he does, her breath catches. But she forces it out, “you can’t do anything for him right now. Okay? But you can get some rest and you can take care of yourself. And you can be here when he wakes up. And if…”

“He won’t want to see me anyway,” his eyes drop now, landing on their hands, flitting to the floor. And she remembers the way he was in the police station when Carl was getting processed. When he thought the diagnosis was enough to scare Mickey away. When he thought Mickey didn’t love him anymore. When he thought he was broken. 

“Bullshit,” it’s forceful when she meant it to be soft, “that’s bullshit Ian. Look, whatever happened, the guy is going to need support. A friend. You can do that. I’m going to call Clare this afternoon, the mother of one of Franny’s friends, she’s a lawyer. I don’t know what kind of fees she charges, but it’s worth a shot. I mean, Fi got that lawyer that she didn’t even know to do her case pro bono when she got guardianship of us, so maybe, maybe Clare can help him out. Or maybe she knows someone.”

His eyes land on her again and steal her breath, “thank you.”


	8. Never Meant It

Never Meant It

 

“Why’s he restrained?” it’s the first thing he notices. It’s not the tube in his chest or the IV bag or the layers of bandaging peaking past the neckline of his hospital gown. It’s not how sunken in his cheeks are or how slowly his heart monitor his beeping. It’s not the screen reading his pulse and his oxygenation and blood pressure. It’s not the way one leg is half bent and looks nearly broken at the strange angle it’s laying. 

“When he woke, he pulled out all the tubes and tried to get out of bed,” Mandy slides a hand over the back of his, lingering on his fingers and Ian wonders if he looks at it enough times, if he forces himself to look at the scars enough times, if it’ll stop catching in his throat. 

“At least he’s still got some fight then,” but he’s not even convinced himself as his eyes linger on those scars. 

“Okay, fuck,” a deep breath, “as long as you’re going to be here, then I’ll be back when I get everything, um.”

“Yeah,” immediately, “it’s okay. Just take your time.”

She nods, her eyes watering over as she tries her damndest to hold it back. She has to clean the blood off the carpet. She has to get Iggy home before he starts going through withdrawals. 

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” 

“Yeah,” she sighs it out, back of her hands smearing tears over her cheeks, “you too.”

“I got like a full hour out in the waiting room, I’m good for days,” he feels himself smile at her and she pretends to smile back, her eyes lingering on his for a long moment. And how the fuck did they end up here? Where did the years go? Fuck, “hey, it’s okay. Just go.”

He didn’t want to come back here. Not right away. Not when there’s even a remote possibility that his face be the first Mickey sees when he comes back around. They sedated him, they must have. If he was ripping out tubes when consciousness crept back in, then they would have restrained him and sedated him. 

“If Carl was around I’d have him go clean the place,” he admits.

“God, that’d be right up his alley, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he takes a moment then, just a small one, only one, to appreciate her existence, her tired smile, her sad eyes and her worried hands as they grip down on her brother’s, “okay go. I’ve got this.”

————

He watches his own fingers as they rise from beside him, from the armrest of the chair beside the bed. Beside the bed in the impersonal, austere, drab hospital room. He watches as they rise and they linger over his on the sheet. The white, stiff, bleached sheet. His where they’ve been placed. Where someone clamped the restraints down on his wrists and attached them to the bed rail. Where someone forced his hand. 

“Fuck,” he knows this, he’s done this, he’s done it when he shouldn’t have done it, and he’s done it when he had to do it. And this time, this time he knows, he should do it. Undoing the buckle from around his wrist. A wrist that’s been handcuffed and chained more times than Ian cares to know, or cares to think about, or cares to imagine. The hand falls open, palm up on the bed. Palm up, fingers limp, lifeless. 

Fuck, the things he’s seen those hands do. He slides his fingers over his palm, “Mick, I know you can hear me. And I know you don’t want me here. I know you don’t want anyone here. You don’t want anyone to see you like this. And you don’t want help. You don’t want anyone to worry about you. You thought no one cared. That’s my fault. It’s my fault that I never showed you. I never showed up when you needed me. And I took you for granted. I acted like you didn’t exist, like I didn’t care, like I didn’t need you. Because it was easier. It was easier than admitting that I missed you with every single fucking breath that I took. And it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad and I couldn’t,” his breath chokes off. Fingers clamping down on the limp ones beneath his hand, “please forgive me. Mick, please forgive me. I’m a fucking child, I was a fucking child about it. I acted like it was your fault. Like all of it was your choice. I acted like you set out to hurt me. Jesus Christ Mick, I love you. I never stopped loving you and I never once fucking told you that. I never said that. I never showed it. But fuck, Mickey please come back, please. I want to try. I want to try to be the man you need me to be. I want to try to be the man you were for me.”

His eyes land on Mickey’s face. They took the ventilator down, at least he’s breathing on his own. At least his heart is beating. At least the brain scans showed normal amounts of activity. Fuck, Ian expected the brain scans to show excessive amounts of activity, the way Mickey always was. Always thinking, always moving, always talking. He never stopped, he never once stopped. Even in his sleep he was ready, he was alert. 

Jesus, fuck, he’s thin. He’s nothing more than cheekbones and jaw. His eyes closed, but sunken in, his lips are already dry and cracked. 

He feels himself moving. Brain and body disconnected. Not telling himself to, but his body knows, his body knows that this has to happen. That he has to slide his hand over his cheek, and he has to lean his forehead to forehead, and he has to kiss his nose and he has to breath his scent and he has to be here. He has to be here when he wakes up. He has to be the one here. And Mickey has to know that it’s him. He has to feel him, he has to smell him, he has to recognize the scent and the feel and the heat of someone who never meant him harm. Even if all he did was harm him in the end, he has to know that he never meant it. He truly never meant it.


	9. Get Out Of Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: ALL THE WARNINGS:  
> Violence, Rape, Drugs, Abuse, Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Self-harm, Self-mutilation, Prison is not Disneyland no matter what world you live in. And Milkovich family fucked-upness.   
> I apologize. This one even I read with one eye closed, so you've been warned. Tread lightly.

Get Out Of Here

 

He is six years old. And she's sitting on the edge of his bed. She’s running her hands through his hair and she is smiling at him, a calm, gentle smile, and she's telling him, “you’ll feel better once you get some rest baby.”

And he nods and she cups his face and she leans into his forehead and she kisses him. And he watches as she rises and she leaves the room.

He wakes to the sound of a thump. It’s not strange. But it’s still dark. It’s still dark and his forehead is still on fire and his throat is still aching and his head is still pounding, “Mom?” his voice croaks out of his body as he lurches out of bed and stumbles blindly out of the room, “Mom?”

She’s there. She’s there at the kitchen table and she’s got a needle in her arm and her head is leaned back and it looks like her neck is broken.

“Mom?”

And her head lifts and it turns and she looks like she’s so far away but she’s right here, she’s right here in front of him. Her brows dip and furl and she stares at him like he’s an apparition and her face twists and she grabs the closest thing to her right hand and it’s a bottle of beer. And she throws it at him and she stands up and she shouts, “get out, get out, get out of here.”

And he is eight years old and it’s Iggy, it’s Iggy standing at the side of his bed and he’s shaking his shoulder and he’s telling him, he’s telling him, “she’s dead Mick. Mom’s dead.”

He is ten years old and it’s Colin. It’s Colin clapping his hands loud right next to his ear and laughing, and telling him, “you’re up little brother. Time to learn,” and he’s cracking his knuckles and stretching his neck and smirking.

Then he’s thirteen and it’s Mandy. It’s Mandy slipping into bed behind him in the middle of the night and she’s crying and she’s shaking and he knows but he doesn’t know. And she’s curled up against his back and he’s promising himself he’ll kill the bastard if he touched her. He’s promising himself he’ll kill the bastard.

And he’s fifteen and he’s in juvie and it’s his cellmate. And he’s leaning over him with a shiv against his neck and he’s whispering, “it won’t hurt if you don’t struggle.”

Then he’s sixteen and it’s a tire iron in the back and it’s a tussle and it gets his blood moving and it makes him feel. It makes him feel. For the first time in so fucking long it makes him feel something other than anger. Something he can’t define and he won’t define, but it’s not anger and it’s not pain and it’s not fear. 

He is seventeen and it’s calm. It’s calm for the first time in his fucking life. And they stayed up so late, they watched movies and drank beers and shared cigs and then they kissed. They kissed like they were starving and they fucked like they were dying.  
He’s eighteen and it’s her. It’s her shifting and grunting and snoring while the baby presses on her organs from the inside and she doesn’t want to be here and he doesn’t want her here but that baby. That baby doesn’t deserve this. That baby doesn’t deserve to be abandoned and unloved. 

Then he’s nineteen and it’s that hot whisper in his ear that’s made him cringe and made him tingle and made him sore and tired and he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want to hear it or feel it, or be here anymore but he can’t bear to walk away, he can’t bear to turn his back, he can’t bear to let him leave again. So he takes it. He takes it and he rides out the storm and he knows, he knows there’s something not right. There’s something missing in the way he touches him and the way he looks at him. Like it’s not enough, like it’ll never be enough. 

He’s twenty one and the ink is infected and his head is pounding and his brain is screaming that it’s over. It’s over. After all of it, after the storm has calmed and the meds are stable, and Mickey isn’t what he wants. Mickey isn’t what he wants. He never was. He never wanted Mickey. Did he?

And he’s twenty two and it starts. It starts. And it’s every fucking night unless he can get himself in solitary. And he can get himself in solitary if he tries hard enough. If he eats his own skin to peel back the ink. If he chews through his own flesh to remove the letters on his fingers. The letters that don’t mean a fucking thing in a place like this. In a place like this where the letters on his chest are the only thing they need, the only thing they need to do whatever the fuck they please with a faggot like him. And the shiv he sharpens isn’t to kill them, it isn’t to kill himself, it’s to erase. To erase him and his past and his future and his, ‘sure Mick, I’ll wait’. And it was a lie. It was a lie. And every time he can get his hands on flame, on fire, on heat he melts it. Little by little so the pain isn’t too much to bear. But is the physical pain anything compared to the emotional pain?

Then he’s twenty-four and it’s Buck. It’s Buck with his thick chest and his dirty hands and his rotten breath. It’s Buck leaning over him and taking a bite of his flesh, biting so hard it breaks the skin and he tears it off like a wild animal ripping the hide off it’s prey, he peels it off and he spits on the floor. His smile is crooked and stained red with Mickey’s blood, his hand is clamped down over his mouth and he’s ripping his clothes off with the other and he’s growling, “mine now pussy boy.”

And it doesn’t stop. It won’t stop. It won’t fucking stop. 

His mouth opens but nothing will come out. And that’s not new. That’s not something new. That’s how it’s been. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it will always be. 

And there’s something on his chest and his head is splitting and there’s beeping and beeping and it won’t stop. And he wants it to stop. He knows what it is and he wants it to stop. To just fucking stop. Stop beating and stop breathing and stop moving. 

He wants it all to go away. To end. He wants the never-ending reel of horror and pain and fear and hurt to go away. He wants it all to stop. And the only way, the only way to make it all just stop, fuck. He has to stop it, he has to stop it.

“Mick, stop! Mickey, please stop, please stop it!” her voice is a shriek in his ears and his eyes are blind. His mouth is numb, his chest is pain. And it’s all echoing and reverberating and never receding. 

“Stop, please,” and her voice is broken and it’s desperate and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. She’s better off, she’s better off without him. She has been for a fucking decade. The brother that failed her, he failed to protect her. So many fucking times.

He can feel her cold fingers wrapped around his wrists, trying, trying so hard to keep him from pulling out all the tubes. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough to make him stop. He won’t stop. He won’t stop until the noises and the pain and the blood and the fear and the voices and the hands and the mouths and the whispers and the threats and the fists and the shouts and the punches and the world. The world. Until the world stops. Until his life stops. Until he’s the one, he’s the one who ends it. 

————

He’s lying on the ground. It’s cold. It’s hard. It’s unforgiving. He’s shivering through the sweats and every time his body convulses on the floor, his jumpsuit rubs against the mutilated flesh on his chest and it shakes him even harder and his core hurts and his mind is numb and his body is nothing more than an unrelenting pain on his chest and in his chest. 

He hears footsteps and he knows. He knows. He knows who it is. And he’s always known who it is. By the sound and the feel and the terror in his footsteps. He knows what’s coming and he knows he deserves it. And he knows, he knows this is his, this is his pain to bear and his load to carry and his punishment to take. 

The only thing he doesn’t know is who he paid off, or who he blackmailed, or who he threatened to get down here. 

The door, the metal, the cage; it opens. And he steps in. His foot connects with Mickey’s back and he knew it was coming. And he knows the next one is coming. And he knows to cover his head but he doesn’t, he doesn’t. Because it doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters anymore. And if he dies now, if he dies by his father’s hand, then it’s over. It’s over. And that’s just fucking fine. That’s better than living this hell. Than breathing this fire and feeling his insides turning to ash and filling his lungs and the smoke stinging his eyes and his nose and torching him from the inside out. 

The world is disappearing and he’s floating and he’s falling and he’s flying and that’s okay, that’s what he wants, and that’s okay. When he finally stops, when he kneels over him and he whispers in his ear with a fistful of his hair, “no son of mine is some faggot bitch of some inbred motherfucker,” he slams his head down quickly on the cement floor, “you’ll thank me later.”

He’s back in his bunk and he’s still pissing blood and one eye is still swollen shut and his head is cracking and pounding and his life is swirling with nausea and he’s dizzy but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to Buck. It only makes his job easier. It only makes the blood rise quicker, it only makes it easier to peel back a scab and run his finger through the blood and gather it on his tongue and roll it around in his mouth to mingle with spit that lands on his palm before his palm slides down and Mickey closes his eyes and he pretends he’s anywhere else. Anywhere else but here. Anywhere else but there. And he can’t find it. He can’t find a time when he was okay, and he was happy, and he was calm, and he was alive. He can’t find it. He can’t find it anymore. Maybe he never had that.

But when his eyes force themselves open this time, this time, the first time in so fucking long it’s not for pain, it’s not for the ripping of his soul away from his body, it’s not the for the tearing of his sanity and the disintegrating of his self preservation. His eyes force themselves open, and it’s because of a noise. A noise he knows. Footfalls he knows. A growl he knows. A struggle he knows. A struggle he still wears from solitary and from a childhood, from a childhood of struggle. But this time, this time it’s not his struggle. This time it’s Buck’s struggle. And it’s Buck’s broken bones and broken skin and blood. It’s his blood and it’s splattering on the walls and it’s his voice and it’s choking off under the clamping of his hand on his throat and it’s his growl in Buck’s ear and it’s his promise, “my son might be an ass digger, but he ain’t your bitch,” as his hand is fisted in the greasy long brown hair of the man who is dying on the floor beneath him. Dying on the floor of a prison cell. Dying with Mickey’s blood on his teeth and smeared in his palm and drying on his lips. 

And Mickey can’t move and he can’t breathe and he can’t speak. And he can’t understand. And he can understand. And he watches. He lies still and he watches as his father, as his monster, as his shadow in the night, as the demon in his mind, as his father. His father. His father drains the life out of a man. 

The guards are dragging him out and Mickey lies still and silent and his eyes land on his father’s and his father’s lock onto his and for the first time in his existence he’s not afraid of the old man. He’s not afraid of the old man when he’s covered in another man’s blood. He’s not afraid of his fists or his words or his feet or his knees or his elbows. He’s not afraid of his eyes. He’s not afraid at all.   
He’s twenty seven. And he’s not afraid. For the first fucking time in his life he’s not afraid. 

————

He’s thirty. He might even be thirty-one by now. He’s not sure. He’s never really been sure. Not unless he thinks about it. He used to keep track by what grade in school he was in, he used to keep track until he wasn’t in school. And then he kept track by what grade Mandy was in. And then Mandy was gone. And then it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter since it didn’t matter to anyone else. So it never mattered. And it didn’t matter behind bars. 

Nothing did.

He’s thirty. Or he’s thirty-one and it’s heavy on his chest and it burns in his lungs and his legs are a million miles away and his mind is an overflowing pot of boiling water and mushy overcooked oatmeal and nothing is clear and everything is clear and the one thing that is so fucking clear it bursts in his mind like a fucking firework on the fourth of fucking July or like that C-4 Colin stole once and they shot it in the courtyards of the abandoned buildings or like the things, the things, those things that used to happen sometimes in his eyelids, sometimes in his mind, sometimes in his chest. Sometimes. Sometimes when Ian’s lips were on his and his hands were sliding through his hair and his tongue was caressing his bottom lip. Sometimes when he’d just linger there like there was no other place in the world he wanted to be. Like staying there, like being there, like right there was the only place. The only place that mattered.

What a fucking lie. What a fucking joke. A myth made up by fairytales and fables and bibles and novels and movies and tv shows. A myth made up to make us all believe it was worth it. It was worth it. That love was worth the pain. That pain was worth the pleasure. That the kiss was worth the hundreds of others that never did that, that never did that thing in his eyes and never did that thing in his stomach, that never did that thing is his chest.

His chest. His chest that used to be so strong. His chest that had a name once. His chest that belonged once. 

His chest that is burned and peeled and scarred and sliced. His chest that he spent years undoing the thing he did in one night. The stupid thing he did in one night, one night behind bars when he was high out of his fucking mind and missing Gallagher so much that he didn’t even feel the sting of the needle that he was poking through his own flesh, he didn’t feel the physicality of it because all he could feel was how much it hurt to miss him. And then it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. 

It didn’t matter.

He’s thirty. Or he’s thirty-one by now. And he can feel it. He can smell it. He can believe it. For just this moment. Just this one. Just one while he’s somewhere between dreams and nightmares and terrors and memories. For just one moment he can pretend. He can pretend that it was that morning. It was that morning on the couch. That morning when he woke up, he woke up and he was still so fucking tired and every muscle in his body was aching with the things they’d done the night before and the things he still wanted to do and the lust and the feeling, the overwhelming feeling like it was all okay. The overwhelming feeling of being okay when he woke with that ginger hair tickling his chin and his fingers spread out and resting so gently over his heart, over his heart like he had that thing on a fucking string already. Like it was just his yo-yo and he could make it do whatever he pleased. 

And for that moment, for just that moment he’s seventeen or he’s eighteen by then. He’s eighteen and he’s okay. Everything is okay. And his hand rises, but his hand doesn’t rise. His hand is bound. His hand is lashed. His hand is caught. And his eyes open and they land on his hand, on his hand where he expects to see FUCK. He expects to see FUCK rising and running over his hair and sliding over his temple and knowing everything is okay. Everything right now is okay.

But it’s not. And it won’t be. And it never will be again.

He sees the scars and he sees the pain and he tastes the blood and he tastes his own flesh lodged between his teeth. And he sees restraints. And they’re not cuffs but they will be soon and he can’t go back there. He can’t go back there. He can’t. 

His left hand rises and it’s not bound. It’s not tied. It’s not restrained. Not by the leather and cotton and nylon. It’s not bound by materials and tied to the bed rail. It’s bound by human flesh and human bones and human muscles and human veins and human warmth. 

And he’s thirty. Or he’s thirty-one and he knows. He knows this won’t last. This won’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queasy? I am. Sorry - but here's the thing about truly breaking Mickey: we've seen him survive so many traumas and come away from them still strong. Struggling - yes, broken - no. I thought the only thing that could break Mickey was losing Ian. Then he lost him seemingly for good at the border and I was kind of okay with Mickey being broken and picking up his own pieces his damn self and building his own life against all the odds stacked up, I believed he could do it. And then we got the BS prison reunion - fan service - yes. Fairy tale - yes. Unrealistic - yes. 
> 
> And prison? Can we just stop treating that shit like it's a safe place? Thing is, even in lower lever lock-ups you're not safe. In this case Mickey went down for attempted murder, so he'd be in a higher level than say a bipolar religious social media figure who blew up a van - um, yeah. So anyway, prison. Some of the major problems with our system is the lack of funding for proper guard to prisoner ratio, and also the fact that guards get paid pretty poorly for the amount of stress that job creates, so yeah, you get a lot of guards who just can't afford to give a shit. You have prisons shutting their doors because the state keeps cutting the budget, so you're throwing every level criminal in one institution. Sure, there are cell blocks and different wings, but that doesn't mean criminals are actually separated accordingly when the overcrowding is ridiculous. And attempted murder? Well, he wouldn't be locked up with all the former pot-dealers, would he? And would his father pull any strings to protect him? Do we really think stabbing dudes in the eye on Svet's deals would pan out well for him?
> 
> So what do we need to put Mickey back together again? Let's start with a damn support system, shall we?
> 
> I promise that is the worst chapter, so if you made it through that one, you'll be fine. The pieces won't magically pick themselves up and we'll take some time to heal each hurt, so we're not completely past the pain but from here forward it will be small steps towards healing. And Ian's got some serious ground to make up for.


	10. Do What You're Best At

Do What You’re Best At

 

Shit. He fell asleep. He fell asleep after he burrowed his way under Mickey’s arm and he wrapped his fingers in his. He fell asleep on the edge of the hospital bed in the ICU where he shouldn’t even be touching this patient. Where he shouldn’t be putting any pressure anywhere on his broken body. His chest that was shot by his own hand, then shocked by Sue’s, then cracked by the sternum saw. The organs were moved and cut and clamped and now they’re bruised and broken and healing. The bones were set and the skin was stapled and bandaged and raw and painful. 

Shit. He sits up with a start and nearly falls off the edge of the bed, but his hand is still clenched down on one that’s grasping back. It’s grasping back when it was limp and dead last time he felt it. 

When he blinks it’s like the years have reversed themselves and he’s waking up in his room, in his room that’s still his bedroom in the house he grew up in. Now it’s only his and the other beds are gone and it’s a big room now that he’s alone in it. And Trevor started spending the nights when he upgraded the bed. And it was good, it was good to have someone. To hold someone. To wake up with someone. But it was wrong, wasn’t it? It was the wrong someone. It was always the wrong someone. 

For just that minuscule moment when his blink comes alive from black to the Gallagher house in his bedroom with all the beds in it and all the boys in it and the only part that mattered was the head on his chest. The smell of his black hair right under Ian’s nose. And the feel of his breath moving in gentle bursts of warm air across his collarbone and his hand, still asleep but beginning to tingle with the feeling of wake when that hand, that hand that by then had travelled every single inch of Ian’s flesh, his hand that had pulled Ian out of the flames how many times by then and it always seemed as though his own flesh was never even singed. When truly he was burning himself alive by reaching out. And Ian never saw that. But that morning his hand was so relaxed and it felt so right and it was right there, it was wrapped in Ian’s and it fit and as soon as Ian breathed, the hand was lifted to his mouth and it was pressed against his lips and he had sighed with a wide awake voice like he had been just lying there all morning listening to Ian’s heart beating beneath his ear, ‘morning Sleepy Face’. 

The sights and sounds and images and scents of that morning swirl and fade and blur and the hospital breaks in to his consciousness again and the lids go black before they open, and the moment they open the hand is removed from his grip. 

“Mick,” he slides off the bed but he reaches for the hand, because the hand is rising and he’s afraid he’s going to start pulling out the tubes again and he can’t bear to see that. And he wants him to want to live and he wants him to want to get better and he understands so fucking suddenly how Mickey must have felt. How he must have felt when Ian didn’t want a nurse, he didn’t want a caretaker. He wanted the shit-talking bitch-slapping piece of trash that Mickey had stopped being. He had stopped being when he thought Ian wanted more, when Ian wanted a rich old man to buy him room service. When Ian wanted an ROTC cadet with a future. When Ian wanted the guys with party favors at the club. When Ian wanted anything, anything that wasn’t Mickey. 

His chest heaves but he fights it. Swallowing hard as he watches his hand moving towards that one that used to run through his hair, it used to run through his hair so nonchalantly but so beautifully. Like he just knew, he just knew when a touch was all Ian needed.

“Don’t,” his voice is gruff and grungy but it’s dead. It’s lifeless and emotionless and so are his eyes. His eyes that are trained on the wall straight ahead. His eyes that used to hold so fucking much more than Ian ever saw. His eyes that used to say all the things his lips would never dare to speak. Those fingers flit over the tube in his chest, the drainage tube.

“Please Mick, don’t touch that. Please. We can…”

“No we. Never we,” flat. But firm.

Fuck, he’s so pale and he’s so thin and he’s so far removed from the boy that took a bullet for Ian, “okay. Okay. You’re right,” even though it clouds his chest, “if you pull on that tube I will put the restraints back on. And they will put a new tube in. Pulling that tube will not kill you. It will hurt, but it will not end this.”

His pointer finger and his thumb are clamped down on it and his gaze won’t shift and his breath is slow and his heartbeat is sounding in the beeps and drones of the machines beside Ian.

“It ended for me years ago,” his finger taps on the tube.

“Mick. Please don’t make me put the restraints back on. I don’t want to do that to you.”

He’s blank. And he’s numb. And his eyes won’t meet Ian’s. And his breath doesn’t hitch and he doesn’t thumb at his nose. His eyes don’t sting and burn and ache because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel. 

Fuck, Ian’s been there before. 

‘If the meds work, why would I need a suicide list?’

‘You don’t. He’s got me.’

“Mick,” it breathes out in a shaking whisper and those eyes like an iced over puddle in January flit to Ian’s face, stealing his breath from his body. And disappear. 

“Leave,” his fingers are lingering on the tube.

“No,” firm. Steady.

“Now,” slow, every word it’s own sentence, “do what you’re best at.”

“No. No, I’m not leaving. I’m not,” his hand is rising, and he’s not sure if it’s for Mickey’s hand or the restraints or the emergency button.

“He’s awake,” a voice interrupts the fight Ian his having with his hand, and his hand makes the decision, sliding over MIckey’s while he’s distracted, sliding over it and grasping it and pulling it down to the edge of the bed. Down to the mattress and squeezing his fingers and his heart is thudding in his ears and the nurse is checking vitals and she’s asking questions he’s not answering and he’s not blinking and if there weren’t machines keeping track of it all, Ian would think he wasn’t even breathing. 

Then she’s gone again. And Ian’s hand is still covering Mickey’s on the bed and he isn’t sure what the nurse said or what Mickey said, if anything, and he isn’t sure when the next person will be walking in that door and he’s not sure when Mickey’s hand will shake his off and rise to tug out that tube but he is certain that his eyes will not leave Mickey’s. Even though his blue ones are glazed over and focused on something so far away that Ian can’t see it and can’t feel it and can’t understand it. But it was always that way, wasn’t it? It was that way from the moment on the couch when he turned a blind eye to the pain on his lover’s face. And that eye remained blind.  
He blinks as all the images come crashing to the surface. From a place he thought he’d buried or maybe never acknowledged it’s existence so it could never be buried. 

“Mick,” just like last time. Like it’s the only word that Ian is capable of saying, it’s the only sound that will pass his tongue and teeth and lips. The only noise that can linger in his mouth the way Mickey’s kisses always did. Or maybe if he keeps saying it, if he repeats it enough times, if he just keeps reminding him; then he’ll come back. He’ll come back from that darkness and that emotionless pit that Ian has seen the depths of but he never once thought Mickey would, he never once thought Mickey could fall so far so hard and so completely. He never once thought Mickey would give in to the demons in his head and the demons in his life and the demons behind bars. He always, he always thought Mickey was unbreakable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian knows what depression feels like, let's see how committed he is to stepping up to the plate even if Mickey pushes him away. 
> 
> So this would have diverged after 6x1, but you'll see a few things in Ian's storyline that have remained in tact.


	11. Promise Of A Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Discussions of Mandy's canonical fuck-upness. Mandy was not given the room to heal, and she deserved so much better.

Promise Of A Child

 

“Why the fuck’s she here?” he’s half draped over the toilet and somehow still covered in puke. He’s sweating and stinky and Mandy just wants to dump him in the tub and leave him there for rest of the day or the week. 

“To keep you sober,” old Ms Bodnar shuffles through the doorway, setting a cup of hot tea beside Iggy on the floor, “drink. Disrobe and get in the tub.”

“The fuck you gonna do if I don’t?”

Her gnarly old lady fingers slide over the crook of her cane. Staring him down with a dare in her crinkled eyes. 

Mandy remembers the way that cane feels on her backside. And she still isn’t sure if it’s true or it was just her brothers telling her stories, but if it’s true, then she has a hidden blade under the rubber nub on the bottom. According to Mickey she uses it to kill rats. According to Colin it was to stab children who walked on her lawn. 

He looks for a moment like predator assessing prey, a sneer that takes too much energy, more than he has, before it disappears and his head drops towards the toilet. His hand, shaking and pale, reaches for the tea cup. 

————

The sky is clouded over with an oncoming storm and the wind is bitingly cold as it chases winter’s tendrils across the hospital’s parking lot. Fuck, she can’t believe she’s back here. Again. Now. After so many years. After trying to move on and forget the house under the L with nothing but horrors of her life past. The boom and echo of her father’s voice, the smell of his breath on her neck, the feel of his hands on her thigh. 

She shrugs further into her coat and walks the blacktop at a quick pace, hands buried in her pockets. Now what? She has some vacation saved up but not enough to get this shit swept up and shoved back under the rug where it belongs. And then what? She leaves. She leaves Iggy to head right back to the needle. And Mickey to raise the gun. 

She shudders as she pulls the door open and stops inside to gather her thoughts, leaning against the wall with a sigh. Watching the bulletin board, absently fingering the ring on the chain around her neck. She wears it, she wears it, she always has, even though she hates that bitch for abandoning them with that piece of shit. She hates her. She will always hate her. But, “what now Mom?” whispers past her lips as her eyes close and she remembers that day she took them to the park. She packed a picnic and they spent the entire afternoon there. She was smiling and laughing and playing. She played with them. She raced around and chased them and when she caught one of them she’d either tickle or kiss or hug them. She was so happy to just be, to just be there with them that nothing else mattered. Not the worn out shoes and the ripped jeans and the clothes that they were growing out of faster than she could afford to replace them. Not the man she’d have to bring them back home to when the day was over. He didn’t matter that day. He didn’t exist that day. 

It happens quick though it’s been hanging there like that winter storm cloud off the lake all morning. All weekend. All her life.

Back to the wall, face in her hands and she slides to her butt. Cradling her knees against her chest and sobbing. Life comes in flashes of pain and hurt and regret and the reason to keep living it sometimes is too fucking hard to find. She remembers the flutter in her body, like a tiny butterfly was trapped in her womb. Back then, back when he was sneaking into her room at night. Nicotine and beer and whiskey. Whiskers rubbing her cheek raw and his hands on her chest. Sliding to her neck, thumbs against her collarbone as he’d whisper threats in her ear. He knew, he always knew the power game. Whether it was learned in prison or learned in his own childhood of steal to eat, eat to live, fight to survive, and the only weapons you will ever have are fear and hate. The only weakness is love. 

And he knew, he knew if he promised to kill her brothers, he knew she’d never tell a soul. 

It happened one night when she was home alone. The feeling like there was something trapped in her body that was dying to get out. She sat and waited for the oncoming assault from a stomach bug or food poisoning. It never came. But it didn’t stop. That feeling inside her. It didn’t stop, not until she went to the abortion clinic. 

But the memory. The memory will never fade. 

The presence at her side is as familiar as it is foreign. Long arms wrapping around her and pulling her into his safety and warmth. His face against the top of her head, breath through her hair. She gives in, she allows herself to be needy and melt against him. She allows herself to rely on him. Just for now. Only for now. She knows all too well what happens to people who rely on Gallaghers. 

“We’ll figure this out,” he promises. But she doesn’t believe it. She doesn’t believe in ‘we’ anymore. Maybe she never has. 

————

His eyes are open. Empty and fixed on the wall. His face is hollowed. A strange shade she’s never seen on him before. She remembers it, from Mom. A ghost, an empty shell. A body that is still alive and a heart that died years ago. A mind that is blank, that the darkness is overtaking. The numbness that he tried so hard to achieve, he’s found it and it’s lingering. 

His wrists are still strapped, bound, restraints on the bed frame. She didn’t know. She wasn’t there. It stings in the back of her throat when she takes a breath and it burns in her eyes as her fingers grace the scars on his fingers. The pad of her finger tracing the indentation of that silky smooth texture where once was a promise. A declaration. How many times? How many times had they all heard their father make that promise? How many times had he slurred it as he stumbled through the house? 

“What happened to you?” she hears herself whisper as her finger slides over his pinky.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. 

He doesn’t speak. And she wonders when the last time was that she heard his voice. Her eyes force themselves shut, burning and aching for the freedom of tears. But that won’t help. That will never help. It never did. Not when they were hiding in the closet and staring at each other through the darkness. Both of them with watery eyes and stains on their cheeks. Those times when Mom would simply whisper, “hide.” 

If he couldn’t find them, he couldn’t touch them. They’d sit in the closet under all the old musty clothes, the hand-me-downs and the afghan that was made by their grandmother. Orange, brown, white. It ended up on the couch later. Later when they no longer hid in the closet but sometimes slipping a finger through a stitch would bring the comfort they both needed. When they were too old to crouch in a corner and cover their mouths. When they were too old to close it all out by putting a blanket over their heads and pretending that the world didn’t exist. They’d sit in the closet until the crashing and crying and screaming and yelling stopped. They’d sit there, eventually he’d reach out his hand and she’d grasp it. But they’d stay. They’d stay there and they’d whisper, whisper about all the places they’d never go and they’d never see and they’d never feel. All the worlds that existed around them and they’d never get to touch. Sometimes they were pirates and dragon-riders and superheroes. Sometimes they were astronauts and aliens and werewolves. Sometimes they were birds. They were birds in flight, soaring through the sky with their wings spread wide. Feeling nothing but the cool air and the freedom of leaving. 

“The ocean air is salty and sweet. It’s cold but refreshing. I catch an upward breeze and I dive off the cliff, letting myself fall before I spread my wings and soar. The waves are crashing against the rocks and the ledge above them is green with life. The water is a blue-green hue between the white-caps and the swirling currents. The rocks are shining in the sun, blinding me with the reflection of the light. There are wildflowers on land and fish in the sea, there’s a boat on the horizon and I watch it bob in the ocean for a long time. I smell fish and I swoop down to the surface of the mirror-like water. I see a reflection of myself, wings outstretched. Even spread wide they look like a crescent. My tail is forked and my body is brown. The sky is blue, the clouds are no more than fingers reaching for the sun. The cliff is high but I soar to the top of it easily. The land is so green it’s breathtaking though the sun is starting to set over the ocean, turning it to gold. The cliffs are dark and barely a shadow but I know where I’m going. I’m going home,” her breath trembles and her voice trails off when she realizes her fingers have slid their way between his and his eyes have closed.

A single shiny tear has trailed down his cheek and his lips part just slightly, only to let out a breath, not to respond. Not to tell her that it’s the same, it’s the same as it always was. And she needs to look at a page of Ms Bodnar’s bird book that isn’t about swifts and she needs to look at a page of her atlas that isn’t Ireland and she needs to get more creative but it’s her place, it’s the place she always goes. She has always had her place, and she’s only ever shared it with him. 

“Maybe someday we’ll go,” she hears herself promise. Even though that was his line. That was his promise. The promise of a child spoken like the truths of an adult. 

His head falls back against the starchy white pillows and her free hand appears in her vision. Trailing through the silver in his black. His breath comes out in a huff but it’s not of protest, it’s not that quiet push to leave him alone. It’s resigned, because he has no choice. He can’t speak around the demons in his chest and he can’t swat her hand away for the binding on his wrists. 

She feels herself leaning, she feels her lips contact his temple and she tastes the salt of tears that she didn’t know were falling, “I love you,” her voice is distant and strange but it’s that promise. That promise of a child spoken like the truths of an adult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Ms Bodnar. Yep, she's here. She'll play a decent sized role in this one.
> 
> One of the things I always think about Mickey is that he had to have learned how to love at some point in his youth. It wasn't only Ian's influence that made him human, there was plenty of human in there already, it was just his love for Ian that brought that gentleness and trust out of him. So in his childhood with Terry there had to have been someone - whether it was his mother, or his siblings, or old Ms B, there was someone at some point that showed him what affection was.


	12. Your Insane Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ew, Trevor is here... but not for long. I wish they had done something better with that character, if only for the fact that they had a trans actor in a trans role and they should have respected that more. But... I hated his character and his storyline and his impact on Ian.

Your Insane Ex

 

Oh shit, he knows it as soon as he walks through the front door. He knows by the hands on his hips and the glare on his face. He fucked up. Shit, Ian fucked up.

“I’m sorry,” immediately, stooping to remove his boots on the mat, “I should have called.”

Trevor’s eyes narrow as he looks Ian up and down like he’s expecting to see his reasons right there on his body. 

“I’m sorry,” taking the chance to step towards him, arm out like he’s waving a white flag, “that was…”

“Irresponsible. Selfish. Stupid,” his voice shakes, and Ian knows he’s only mad because he was worried, but the words aren’t going to stop there, “why the hell didn’t you answer your phone, huh? All weekend. Three days since I’ve heard your voice. Three. I called Debbie, who didn’t answer, which I didn’t expect anyway. I called Lip and he didn’t know anything. I called Liam. And Liam was the one that said Debbie mentioned something about you staying at the hospital with a patient. Ian? Who…”

His hand extends, aiming for Trevor’s arm, but he jerks it away. Taking a step back, making the line in the sand very fucking clear.

“Who was it? I spoke to three of your five siblings, and if it was either of the other two, they’d have known. So who…” his blinking is growing rapid, and his chin quivers, “who could possibly be that important?”

Fuck. How does he explain any of this? Is there even a slight chance that Trevor would understand? He’s waiting. Face set in a line of anger. Ian takes a deep breath, trying to draw back his own worry and panic that’s been chasing anxiety and fear around in his mind and body for the last few days. Since he clamped down on Iggy’s neck with his blood-stained gloves, “fuck,” his voice shakes and his stomach clenches. Fuck, he needs to eat dinner, and take his meds and he needs some fucking sleep. And he needs to work tomorrow and he’s not sure he can sleep anyway, he’s certain he can’t work, so he’ll have to call in sick. And right now, right fucking now, the last thing he wants to do it talk about an ex-boyfriend with his current boyfriend. His current boyfriend who is waiting, and staring and silently begging him to tell the truth. So he tells the truth? Trevor walks away. Shit, Ian’s not sure he’s ready to be alone. Is that what’s important in a long-term relationship? Is fear of being alone the only reason he’s still holding on?

“Shit, Trev I’m sorry. I should have called, I should have answered. It just…” his fingers have risen to rub at his forehead like he can erase the last few days or weeks or months or years by rubbing them away. He can reverse to eleven years ago on the other side of the glass, and he can say, ‘yeah Mick, I’ll wait,’ and he can fucking mean it because that was the one fucking thing Mickey had ever asked him to do and he couldn’t even convincingly lie about it, “Mickey,” it sighs out of his mouth, barely above a whisper. As it’s swirling across the air it sounds more right, more complete, more whole than Trevor’s name ever did rolling off his tongue.

“As in, your insane ex Mickey?”

“Don’t, don’t say that, he’s…”

“He’s fucking crazy is what he is. He tried to kill your half sister-cousin. Among other things, he’s a criminal Ian. You do not need to surround yourself with losers and…”

“Stop!” it’s a shout when he meant it to be a quiet demand. His hands rise like stop signs in the space between them, “just, don’t. I don’t need a lecture. Mickey was a friend for much longer than he was a boyfriend, alright? And Mickey did things, he did things for me, that no one else on this Earth would do.”

“So you owe him? Is that what you think?” his eyes rolls, arms clamped tight across his chest, “you think you owe this piece of trash? For what? Ian, I have done…”

“No, you haven’t. And that’s not the point. That’s not the point I’m trying to make. I’m not saying he was down for me in ways that you aren’t. He’s a friend. A friend who needs help. Isn’t that what friends do for one another? Help?”

He stares silently at Ian for a long time, letting the words roll around in his mind, trying to decide if there is such thing as a friend that could cause a three day absence. Is there such thing as a friendship that a person would ignore their partner and their family for?

“Fuck, he was more family than my family ever was back then,” Ian admits it, for the first time, to himself more than to Trevor, “and I fucking…”

Now it’s his turn to put out his hand, “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you hashing out your relationship. I’m tired. I’m tired from spending the weekend worrying about you. And I’m going to bed.”

“Okay. I am sorry, okay?”

“I heard you,” he snarls it over his shoulder as he starts up the stairs.

————

He ate enough to take the meds. And the plate is cold and the last few bites are congealed and his head is in his hands, elbows propped on the table. He should be going upstairs. He should be talking this out. He should be talking this out with his boyfriend. His boyfriend who basically lives here and has for a few years now, his boyfriend who has been hinting around about marriage or at least a further commitment for months. His boyfriend who has been there, who has been there…

Thick and thin. Sickness. Health. All that shit. 

The image, the memory rises to the surface and jar his body into motion. Dumping the rest of the food in the garbage, plate clattering into the sink, and out the door into the biting cold of a Chicago winter. 

————

He pushes the door open quietly, hesitantly. Stepping into the room, the step-down from ICU but still highly attended by hospital staff. Still not out of the woods. Still not in the clear. Still in so much fucking pain it reaches out and knocks the wind out of Ian’s lungs when his eyes scan over his in the bed. He looks the same as he did earlier, when Ian left, only hours ago. Sitting straight up, staring at the wall.

He should still be in ICU. Shit, it’s an insurance thing, isn’t it? They’re going to push him through this process too quickly, too quickly to fully recover. Physically, mentally. Fuck. 

Mandy is slouched back in the chair beside the bed, her fingers laced through his, a magazine in her lap, she’s reading. He’s not listening. Of course he’s not listening, “really Mandy, People magazine? Could at least be reading Guns & Ammo or something,” Ian tries a smile but it feels tight and forced.

“Whatever, like they have anything in that waiting room he’d be interested in? It was this or some fucking health periodical,” she rolls her eyes, closing the magazine and tossing it to the tray with a glass of water on it, “thought you were going home to get some sleep.”

“I was.”

“You have to work tomorrow?”

“I do.”

She scoffs at him, saying without a word that he’s an idiot for missing out on the opportunity for sleep. 

“Hey, it’s not ’til two. Afternoons this week,” he shrugs, “I’ll be able to get a few hours in the morning.”

She shakes her head at him, and he takes note of her fingers grasping more tightly to her brother’s, “so, how is it? The job,” tilting her head towards the chair on the far side of the bed, “seems like it suits you.”

“It does,” he accepts the invitation even though it means walking past the wall where Mickey’s eyes are glued. Fuck, he wants to look at him, he wants to stare at him, he wants to memorize every single difference and picture every single thing that could be. Everything that could look so right if he would take care of himself. But it hurts. It fucking hurts so much to look at those sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, “yeah, I, um, I was going to work my way up to firefighter when I first started. It seemed, I don’t know, maybe more exciting? But then after working as an EMT and qualifying as paramedic, I just…” shrugging, “it just stuck.”

She looks different. She’s not the same Mandy that skipped town twelve years ago. She’s not the same Mandy that was disposing of a dead body in a hotel in Chicago ten years ago. She looks healthy. She has color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes even through the pain of sitting here, of worry, of her family life falling apart and leaving her to pick up the pieces. 

“What about you?” he finally wonders when her eye contact shifts for a moment. 

Her fingers working over her brother’s while she speaks, “I’ve been in San Diego for a few years now. I was working in a bar when I moved there. Kind of a high end joint. One of the regular customers is a real estate developer and he needed an office manager. Said if I could handle the rigor of tending bar then I could easily train into the position he was offering. It’s been, nice. Stable, decent money, hours are predictable. Enough to afford a place near Pacific Beach, it’s small but it’s just me, so it doesn’t matter if it’s small,” her eyes rise to meet Ian’s again and she sort of half smiles, “California is, it’s different, a different vibe, I’m not sure I’m used to it, or I’ll ever get used to it. But it’s warm and it’s,” she shrugs, “mine,” the smile becomes all smile for just a brief moment before faltering again as her focus flits over Mickey’s face. 

“Good,” Ian responds, “I’m glad you’re doing well,” it sounds so polite, and so impersonal. Fuck, how did it come to this? How did they lose each other? When were they reduced to small talk? 

She feels it too, the professionalism, the facade. She sighs heavily and leans back, an amused smile on her face when she admits, “surfer guys though, fuck. Can’t beat that with a cold Chicago winter and pale fucking skin year round.”

The smile on his face feels so foreign but it stays. It stays as she starts talking, truly talking about her life now, about her friends and her job and her neighbors and they guy she just broke up with. She says it was only a fling and she hates having a steady boyfriend anyway and Ian gets it. She can’t have a long term boyfriend without eventually telling him the truth, without eventually telling him about her shitty upbringing and her horrible father and all the wretched things he’s done to her. But she shrugs it off and smiles, “I tried a dating app,” she rolls her eyes, “what a fucking circus. It’s like trolling ground for guys with kids and divorces and crazy ex-wives, or current wives, and I mean really, if you’re over thirty and on a dating app there’s probably a reason you can’t get a girlfriend anyway, right? Oh my god, I went out with this guy once who, the drinks weren’t even on the table yet, and he was talking about his foot fetish already,” while she’s talking, her fingers keep tracing over and lacing into Mickey’s and the sound of her voice seems to be lulling him into a state of calm within the drugged blurry pain that’s rolling around in his body and mind, “and then there was the guy who was hitting on the waiter more than he ever hit on me,” she laughs.

And when she does it, Mickey’s head turns towards the sound. Her hand rises, sliding across his cheek, through his hair. Eyes locked onto him, expression unchanging. She won’t show him pity or sadness. She won’t show him disgust or horror. She will show him support. Something that Ian never did, “okay?” she whispers.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t nod. But she finds her answer in his eyes, lingering there watching him for a long moment, her smile unfading when she starts speaking again. 

She doesn’t stop, she doesn’t stop talking and her hand remains in his hair, her eyes on his face, for so long. For so long that her voice takes on an edge of exhaustion and that sort of crackling sound that only happens when you’ve been speaking more in the last hours than you have in the last weeks combined. 

————

Ian startles awake to the sound of a person shuffling around near him, the sound of quiet easy talking, reassuringly guiding a patient through a process. A nurse. He blinks into the lights of the hospital room. His neck kinked and his legs numb from falling asleep for fuck knows how long in a chair. Blinking at the lights and the ceiling, the noise filtering in and out of his mind. Knowing where he is, and letting it all return slowly. The nightmare from the last few days, breathing it all back, letting it all come into sharp clear focus before blurring at the edges and falling away into the blank nothingness in the far reaches of his memories. 

A deep breath, tilting his head. Bandaging, they’re changing his bandaging. The short, squat nurse with the concern lines having etched themselves into permanent wrinkles through the years on the job. And the med student with the caramel skin and the silky smooth voice explaining care of the wound to a patient. A patient who is staring straight ahead. Straight ahead at the wall with nothing in his eyes and nothing on his brows and nothing on his mouth. 

“What do you have him on for pain?” Ian hears himself wonder. 

“High risk for opioid addiction, among other addictions,” the med student sighs, motioning towards his chest wound, “wound infiltration anesthesia. But that,” marking some things down on her chart while she watches the nurse pealing back the bandaging and Ian’s stomach clenches, “will only be for a few more days if that.”

“That’s all? That’s all he’s on?”

“Anti-anxiety meds. He’ll be evaluated this afternoon for further psychiatric treatment. If they don’t commit him to the ward, then he’ll be stepped down,” leaning towards him to get a closer look at the staples in his chest, the stitches and the fucking scarred skin that forces Ian’s eyes to close. 

The whole while Mickey has been staring straight ahead. Unmoving. Not speaking. This is not Mickey. This is not Mickey, it keeps repeating in Ian’s head like if he thinks it enough times then the shit-talking piece of trash will find his way to the surface and tell the staff around here to fuck off. Tell them he don’t need a fuckin’ psych hold and he sure in the fuck ain’t goin’ to the loony bin. 

She’s still talking but Ian’s focus has shifted, landing on his wrists where they’re still bound to the bed rail and the skin on the edge of his hand looks irritated like he’s been pulling at the cuffs, “when will you remove the restraints?”

“Dr Miller will decide that after the eval this afternoon.”

It doesn’t matter what the bindings are made of, they could made of fucking alpaca fur and they’d still eventually irritate if you rub on them long enough. Ian hadn’t noticed him pulling. Shit, he’s been right here and not paying a damn bit of attention. Just like fucking always. 

He bites his lip to keep it from trembling, letting his eyes fall across the bed to where Mandy is passed out in her chair, the noise and the speaking not registering in the least through her sleep fog. 

His exhale shakes and his eyes are dragged across Mickey’s exposed chest again. Ian Gallagher misspelled in black ink, infected around the edges. And he blinks. And it’s burned and ripped and torn off. That black ink being peeled back layer by layer by his own fingers, his own fingers and not the ones that promise FUCK U-UP, not those fingers. Ian’s fingers. He did that. He peeled those layers and burned that flesh and picked away at his soul with every single drop of blood and every single scream of pain coursing through his body. While he sat alone, alone behind the glass and the cinder bock and the steel bars. Alone. 

It’s in his mind and it’s pasted across his lids when he closes his eyes. 

————

“What do you think they’ll do from here?” she’s pacing the waiting room, her thumb keeps rising to her mouth to chew at the corner of her nail.

“Hard to say.”

“Fuck,” her hands drop to her hips, turning on her route across the room, “Iggy said he was going to pop a piss test, and he couldn’t,” her voice chokes off in her throat, hands rising to slide through her hair, “couldn’t go back. I don’t know, I have no idea what happened to him. I fucked up, I lost touch, I ignored his existence. It was too fucking much and I,” the panic in her voice is reaching a fever pitch and Ian can see it in her chest, the rate of rise and fall.

He grabs for her hand when it falls to her side, stopping her in her tracks, “it’s not your fault Mandy.”

“My brother was in prison. And I…”

“It’s not your fault,” he asserts, this time taking hold of her chin to aim her gaze at his face, “it’s not your fault.”

“Well it sure as fuck feels like it is,” she grumbles, but her breathing is closer to even and her eyes are focused on his. 

“I know. I ignored him too. Fuck, Mandy, I lied to him. I told him I’d wait for him.”

Silence for a few breaths, her thumbnail in her teeth, eyes narrowing, wondering, “what was on his chest?”

“Which part?” mind taking inventory of the staples and stitches and tubes and gauze and tape, and fuck, “my name.”

“What?”

His butt hits the chair behind him, “he tattooed my name. Fucker spelled it wrong, he was probably high as fuck when he did it. I don’t know, I know he can spell. So,” he shrugs, “upside down or high or just… but that’s not, that doesn’t matter. Svet had to pay me to go visit him. And he showed me, Jesus fuck, I told him about that. I told him she had to pay me,” leaning into his hands, elbows to knees, “I fucking told him that. Like I hadn’t already hurt him enough by… Mandy,” his eyes rise now, locking onto hers where she’s watching him without judgment or pity, the look she has perfected from the years with her brothers, “I treated him like shit. I was no better than your father or Svetlana in the way I treated him. Fuck, and he did, god, he did so much for me that no one else has ever fucking done. Because he fucking cared about me. And I acted like that didn’t matter,” his voice shakes and he swallows hard, “he had my name on his chest. In prison, he was walking around with my name on his chest. I don’t even want to,” voice choking off this time, eyes burning with aching tears and regret, “know. I don’t even want to know what having a dude’s name on your chest would mean in a place like prison.”

The perfected look crumbles and her eyes brim over before she gets a chance to cover her face. Sliding into the chair beside Ian. She doesn’t have to say it, she doesn’t have to say anything at all. It means enough, it means enough that he had to cut and burn his own skin off. It means enough. 

The silence lays over them nearly as thick as their guilt before she sighs hard, cold hand reaching over for his and lacing through his fingers, “split the guilt fifty/fifty?”

The exhale is relief and his voice shakes across the room, “no, at least seventy-five is mine.”

“Well really, we could dish out twenty-five to Svet. You take fifty, and…”

“Actually she had him doing Russian mob shit in prison, so, really…”

“Fuck it. One hundred percent of that guilt is hers,” her smile is sad but there’s a twinkle in her eyes, a twinkle of belief. Of hope. And that’s all they have right now, then they’ll hang the fuck on to it, “and she was his wife, and Yev is his kid. That fucking bitch. I still don’t understand how the hell they ended up together. Whores were never really Mickey’s thing, I’d believe that shit from Iggy. Or Colin. But not Mickey.”

It cuts though the fog and knocks the wind out of his lungs. His face. His face on the couch that morning, silently begging him to see him. Silently begging Ian to see him through the abuse and the rape and the situation that he had to control, he had to control it, he didn’t choose to control it, he had to, “your dad called her over,” he hears himself admit to the first person he’s ever admitted it to. That day has been shrouded in pain and regret for over half his life and he’s never seen it so fucking clearly as right this instant, “he caught us together and he called her over to fuck him straight.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, her eyes don’t water, her lip doesn’t tremble. Anger. Anger is what takes her features, nostrils flared, lips pressed firmly together. Turning to stone beside him when she was so soft and caring only moments ago. Her Milkovich armor is back up and ice is in her voice, colder than any Chicago winter day, “I should have killed him.”

“We were kids,” he tries, the same line he’s been feeding himself since he walked in that door and saw Mickey bleeding out on the floor.

Her focus shifts and lands on his face. All the things she never said and all the things Mickey never said and all the things Ian never saw. They weren’t kids. Milkovich kids were never kids. They never got that luxury. They didn’t have Fiona. They didn’t have Monica riding in on her manic high and taking them to the carnival. They didn’t have Frank, even Frank was an improvement from anything they had. 

‘You love me and you’re gay’, it echoes in his head, bouncing off every lobe as it becomes a solid thing, the words spelled on the broken concrete in a busted courtyard surrounded by dying Autumn grass and crumbling buildings. ‘You love me and you’re gay’. Fuck, Ian was a child, Ian truly was a fucking child when Mickey needed a man. He needed a man who loved him and supported him and all Ian could do was point more fucking fingers and make more accusations and force him to say things he didn’t want to say and go against his very survival instincts to shout, ‘I’m fuckin’ gay’ because Mickey couldn’t let Ian walk away. Because Mickey did love Ian. Fuck, did Ian ever love Mickey back? The way he deserved?

No. He didn’t. He didn’t because he had himself and Mickey convinced that Mickey was nothing. Nothing more than a blow job whenever he wanted it. Nothing more than a dog to sleep on the floor beside his bed. Nothing more than a closeted thug who was homophobic and hated himself. But Ian never gave him a fucking reason to stop hating himself. No one ever gave Mickey a reason to stop hating himself. The one person, the only person that Mickey ever loved, and ever sacrificed his own fucking sanity for, was a selfish fucking child who couldn’t even admit that he loved him back. He loved him. And it wasn’t only for the sacrifices he made. It was for his smart mouth and his shitty attitude. It was for pissing on first base and running back into the van to kiss him. It was for the obstacle course in the abandoned buildings and all the time they spent shooting bullets and pellets and shooting the shit, watching movies and playing video games. He loved that Mickey was willing to do anything, anything for him. Chase him to a club that he hated and an afterparty that he hated, and sleep on a sofa in some stranger’s loft that was so far out of his reality, but it might have been the first time in his life that he slept with his back to the door. He loved him for bringing him home even when he didn’t want to come home. He loved him for his dirty jokes and his high brows. His smirk and his strut and his scams. He loved him for his scrap and his fight. Fuck. Fuck, he loved that bulletproof piece of trash. And he took care of him. Mickey took care of Ian. When Ian couldn’t take care of himself. When Ian didn’t want to take care of himself. Because Ian was still a kid. And Mickey wasn’t. And that was the difference. Mickey loved Ian like that man that he was. And Ian loved Mickey like the child that he was. 

He doesn’t realize there are tears until Mandy’s skinny fingers swipe them away from his face and her voice demands, “toughen up buttercup. We’ve got a long road ahead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get these posted in pretty quick succession so those of you following along in posting time can get to the easier chapters quickly, so I'm editing between house chores and such today and will try to get a giant dent put in it, the rest of the week is a little uncertain, but I'll at least try to get a chapter or two a day. As it stands there are 40 chapters and I'm still not quite where I want to end it, but it's at least at a point where if I took a breather then I wouldn't feel bad. I definitely want to get this out before the season, like I said, I really doubt anyone is going to be looking for heavy stuff during the season unless they do fuck up their story in canon and we end up pissed off all over again.
> 
> So if you're subscribed to me - I apologize for the avalanche of updates, and if this gets to be too much of a workout, I'll hop over to something else for some validation :)


	13. A Funhouse Mirror

A Funhouse Mirror

 

Ian always thought that when a boyfriend left him, it should feel like the world had tilted on it’s axis. It should feel like the table cloth being pulled from beneath the glassware on top of it, when the trick is done wrong at all the glass is nothing more than shattered pieces on the floor while the silverware clangs to the ground around it. It should feel like looking into a funhouse mirror. Like all the things you thought you were are no longer true.

But it doesn’t. It didn’t feel that way for any of them. Any of the boyfriends in the time passed since he watched Mickey through that glass. 

And it certainly doesn’t feel that way when he comes home from the hospital to see Trevor loading boxes into his car. It feels like the end, the certain end to something, but not the world. Not to Ian’s identity. It’s a sinking feeling, knowing he fucked up and he should have had the decency to end it when he realized it wasn’t the thrill and the butterflies and the comfort and feeling of just knowing, of knowing love existed between them. Maybe it was just last week, or maybe it was months ago that he realized it. Maybe it was the day he stood on the porch of the Milkovich house and Mickey told him he missed the welcome home party by six months. Or maybe it was years ago when they first kissed and it was nothing. It was fun, and it was exciting to be wanted again, to be wanted after thinking the disorder had reduced him to no more than a pretty package that was hiding a broken human. It was comforting to have a friendship. And maybe that’s all it ever should have been.

When he watches Trevor walking down the stairs of the house he grew up in, he realizes how unnatural it looks. And maybe it always has, and maybe he ignored it. It’s not the same, it’s nowhere near the same as the way Mickey used to hop down those stairs and take off down the street at full swagger. It’s nowhere near the way he used to leave the gate open, every single time like it was just a sure sign he’d be back. Like it was okay for him to leave the gate open since no one fucks with Milkoviches. It wasn’t lazy and uncaring, the Gallagher house was his territory, it was Mickey’s territory when he lived there. 

But while he watches his boyfriend of how many years now? Fuck, he’s not even sure. He could remember the date of the first time Mickey kissed him. The first time they fucked. The first time he held his hand, well, wrapped his hand around Mickey’s in the storage room and Mickey didn’t kick him in the shins for it. He could remember the first time he told him he loved him. He whispered it against his back, his warm quiet breath against Ian’s spine as he lay basically lifeless in the bed that became their bed, their bed in their home where they were raising their son with their wife. Ian doesn’t remember much, he remembers feeling nothing, feeling nothing at all for days. But through that nothingness was Mickey’s promise, Mickey’s whispering admission, ‘I love you’. And it meant the fucking world to Ian and he never said it back. 

While he watches his boyfriend, his live-in boyfriend, the one he nearly proposed to about a year ago. And not because he wanted to, but because they were already ghetto-married and they might as well keep a steady thing going, and they might as well officialize something that he knew Trevor wanted. But there was something just not right about it. Blaming it on the examples he’s had of marriage. Even in the best example he’s ever had, with Kev and V, there’s still been cheating and lying. And maybe Ian could blame his fear of marriage on everyone around him. On Frank and Monica, Fiona and Gus, Fiona and Sean. Kash and Linda. Ned and Candace. Mickey. Fuck, Mickey and Svet. The forced marriage that Ian had himself convinced was a choice. What the fuck would they have done if Mickey walked out anyway? If Mickey left that baby to be cared for by a whore and who? Terry? Would Terry have taken his grand baby under his roof? Mandy? Would Mandy have stuck around and made the sacrifice for her nephew if her brother ran off on him?

Fuck. Then Ian ran off with him, ran off with the baby. Is that why Svet left? Not that they loved each other, but by then there was some mutual respect anyway. And by then they were raising that baby together. Mickey was looking at that baby, and holding that baby, and loving that baby by then. That was the part that mattered. That baby. The part where that baby had parents who loved him and raised him together. The rest of it was, it was just some fucking paper. Just a piece of paper. That baby now? That baby is a twelve year old. And that baby was raised by money, that baby was probably raised by a nanny. 

“Shit,” he’s not really sure what he’s doing when he opens the trunk for Trevor and helps him with the boxes. And doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Not the break up and the betrayal. The betrayal of maybe loving someone else the entire time. The entirety of their relationship and not having the guts to admit it, to take a step back and work on himself by himself. 

He watches as Trevor lowers himself into the driver’s seat of his car. The worry lines that have become permanent in his brow, around his mouth. It’s not easy giving yourself to a cause like he has. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself whisper. 

Trevor’s eyes skim over, landing on his. He’s not angry. He’s not upset. And maybe he never loved either. Maybe it was convenience for him too. Maybe it was just that shell, that good looking guy with a good job and his shit together that attracted Trevor. Maybe if he had seen the true depths of Ian’s diagnosis he would have packed his shit and taken off years ago. 

He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to. Maybe there’s nothing to say anymore, maybe there never was. The smile on his face is sad, resigned and maybe they should offer to be friends, or maybe that’s all they’ve ever been anyway. 

He nods when he turns the engine. Ian closes the door gently, taking the step back and watching the car roll away. He stands there until he can’t see it anymore, hands in his pockets, winter’s wind nipping at the exposed back of his neck. He’s still standing there when he hears Debbie’s voice from the sidewalk behind him, “you, uh, protesting something? Waiting for the snow to melt? Testing the science behind frost bite? Practicing to become one of those statue people all painted gold or whatever? Moving to New York to pursue a career in street performance?”

“Yep, that’s the one,” he half-smiles, turning to meet them in front of the gate, leaning down to kiss Franny’s head, “how was school today?”

————

Sitting at the table after an evening jog and a plateful of dinner, watching Debbie pop the top off a beer, she lifts it in offering, “no thanks, I’m heading back to the hospital after I shower up.”

“That the last of Trevor?” she leans her butt back against the counter.

“Yeah.”

Sighing after a sip of beer. She’s certainly headed in the right direction, maybe the only Gallagher who will never have to fight addiction or emotional disorders. It’s too early to tell with Liam if he’ll make it through the mine field free and clear, but Debbie, she’s doing pretty damn great, “I can’t say I’m surprised. Or upset. I won’t miss him.”

“Debs,” he wants to tell her not to start, not to dig in, that it doesn’t matter anyway.

“I’m just saying Ian, you’ve done worse, you’ve done better and he’s just not right for you. He was always more in the friend zone, and sure, some people make that work as something more, but not you two. Plus, I always hated the way he talked to you.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, like, sure, he’s a good guy for dedicating his career to high risk teens. But personally, I don’t know, he always just rubbed me the wrong way,” she shrugs, running her finger over the edge of the counter, “seemed like he wanted the surface you and not the fucked up pile of shit underneath.”

“Wow Debs, that was pleasant.”

“And true. I mean, anyone can tell you’re good looking. And anyone who meets you now, knows the stable you, and the stable you is wonderful, don’t get me wrong. The stable you is what I hope you’ll be for the rest of your life. But do you think if he met the unstable you, that he’d still want you?”

“I know, and I know what you’re getting at…”

“Frank loved Monica through all of her fucking craziness. And Monica? I mean, was Monica ever truly capable of loving anyone? She never loved herself enough to take care of herself. She never loved us and we were her children. But…”

“Mickey loved me when I was crazy,” he sighs, leaning back in the kitchen chair. Wondering again, how much does Debbie remember? How much could she really have processed when she was that young? Watching Ian falling apart and Mickey trying his damndest to keep him and everyone around him alive, “do you remember me swinging the bat at you?”

“Of course I do. But I wasn’t truly afraid for my life. I mean, yeah, you startled the fuck out of me, but,” she shrugs, “I don’t know. Maybe if Mickey wasn’t there, or I don’t know. Maybe Frank would have snapped out of it and actually stepped in. Maybe between Fi and I we could have wrestled the bat our of your hands. People are really fucking strong when they’re crazy,” she half-smiles, “who knows? Either way, you didn’t bash my head in, so…”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever Ian, that was…”

“No. I am sorry Debs. You know as well as I do that I can’t blame every mistake on the disorder. It’s still me who swung the bat.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No. No buts. It was me. And I apologize.”

She watches him for a moment, debate flaring across her face, her smile sad and filled with all the failings of their childhood, “I accept your apology. But don’t ever do it again. Apologize, that is. Just stay stable and stay in Franny’s life. And that’s more than a spoken apology will ever mean, okay?”

“Okay,” he feels himself smile back at her. She’s right. Spoken apologies mean nothing if they aren’t followed through on.

“Oh, and I spoke to Clare. She went through Mickey’s records that she had access to, and she’s going to meet with his parole officer next week. She wants to set up a meeting with Mickey before then, but she doesn’t want to do it in ICU of course.”

“Fuck, thank you Debs, that’s… that’s really, I mean,” words fail. Sometimes words just fail.

She smiles, but, “don’t get your hopes up Ian. Just because he’ll actually have a good lawyer on his side, doesn’t mean whatever lab work they did when they brought him in with a self-inflicted gunshot wound will just magically disappear. We already know, we’ve seen it enough times in this neighborhood, just how much our system is willing to give a shit about repeat offenders and his record is like a mile long. It’s a lot easier for them to just throw him behind bars again and pretend he doesn’t exist rather than putting the effort into truly rehabilitating him and making him a contributing member of society.”

Ian feels his face responding even though his voice doesn’t.

“What? I’m not Frank. I’m just tired of the system being so fucked up from top to bottom.”

“I know,” he sighs, “I was actually impressed with the rant.”

“My daughter lives in this world. I can’t afford to not pay attention anymore.”

“Good,” he smiles at her, “and Debs? Just so you are reminded, you’re doing a great job. Franny is lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have her,” she admits quietly before the Gallagher shield comes back up quickly, “now go take a fucking shower, I can smell you from here.”

“On it,” clattering his now empty plate into the dishwasher and squeezing her shoulder on the way by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I think we like to forget about canon Ian is that he is just a bad boyfriend. Across the boards. And sure, it's examples in the life he led, and it makes sense that he would think cheating and running off on Trevor was okay since he loved Mickey, but... really? Is it okay? So in this version at least we're respecting Trevor enough to break things off now. 
> 
> And Debbie, oh Debbie. Here I go again playing off of her original character traits. But one of the things about Ian, keeping himself healthy, he has to have a strong support system. With Fi gone, with Lip off and married, with Carl gone, he's left with Debbie, Franny, and Liam. Does anyone really know anything about Liam at this point? I don't. So I'll just do whatever I see fit with him as well. And Franny - the love of a child is important. That's one of the ways they've failed Debbie - she has every opportunity to get her shit together for her daughter and in her career path, and no reason not to. Being one of the younger children gives you the opportunity in the family dynamics to see how the older ones have fucked up and avoid that shit. And if you're going to do anything right in your life it'll be for your kids. So Debbie - step up to the plate please, circumstances be damned.


	14. For Your Own Good

For Your Own Good

 

He’s walking down a long hallway. His feet are bare and the carpet underneath is damp and worn. It smells like stale beer and long extinguished cigarettes. He can hear someone behind him. But when he turns to see who it is, they’re gone. There is a room at the end of the hallway, the light is yellow and it’s just a crack in the darkness. 

He can still feel it. He can feel immense pain crashing though his chest. Echoing through his body and reverberating in every single vein. Every beat of his broken heart rushes in his ears and he hears someone sigh.

Turning quickly, she’s right there, “Mom?”

“You always were the weak one.”

“What?”

“I’m doing this for your own good.”

“Mom?”

“You never understood.”

He can’t see her face in the darkness but her presence is towering over him. His eyes drop to his own shadowy form. He’s naked and he’s a child. There are no scars to speak of, none that matter. But he can feel the dull ache of wounds that will be bruises come morning. A blast of cold air tingles down his spine and through his damp hair.

“Mom?” his voice is soft, broken, scared, “Mom?!” desperate.

“I’m doing this for your own good baby.”

His toes are burning with the cold of snow beneath his bare feet. Ice searing his flesh and nipping at his bones, “Mom?” his hand is red, licked by the Chicago winter air, “let me in, Mom, please?”

His fingers grasp the door handle and turn. Turn, turn, but no use. It’s locked. 

Another wind from behind him rips down his naked spine, across his butt-cheeks and down his legs. Shivering, teeth chattering, “Mom?! Open the door! Unlock the door! I promise I won’t do it again. I won’t do it again. Whatever I did, I won’t do it again. Whatever I did,” a tear falls, it trails down his frozen cheek and stings his skin, caressing the corner of his mouth and sliding into his lips. The salt coats the inside of his mouth, “Mom?!”

His mind is scrolling through every step he took today, every breath he drew, every word he uttered. What did he do? What did he do to make her hate him? Just this morning she woke him up with a smile, stroking his cheek and telling him gently it was time to get ready for school. She loved him this morning, didn’t she? Did something happen at school? Did the teacher call her about him not paying attention in class? Did Lip Gallagher’s mom call her about him knocking that nerd’s notebook on the floor? Did Mandy rat him out for eating that Snickers bar he found in the secretary’s desk? 

Did something happen after school? Did Iggy actually mean it when he said he’d tell Mom about the scuffle they got into earlier? But Iggy was the one that started it. He was the one that took GI Joe when it wasn’t his turn with it. 

Did he make the wrong face at dinner? Did he eat too much or too little? Did he have dirty fingers? What happened?

“Mom?!” his toes are burning and tingling and his fingers are numb. HIs ears on fire and his breath is nothing more than crystalized mist when he screams, “Mom! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He falls to his knees on the cold back porch as the L screeches by, “I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again!”

Both hands balling into fists and pounding on the back door, “Mom?! Please,” voice weak and pained. His entire body is pins and needles, “please,” no more than a whisper as he sags to the frozen wooden boards of the porch. The tears freezing immediately as they fall. 

The click of the lock and yellow light spills out onto the snow dusted boards beneath him, “it’s for your own good baby,” she coos at him.

The yellow light spills across the darkened hallway as the door opens with a creaking sound. He takes a step towards it. Feeling her presence behind him, feet bare on the damp carpet. He cranes his head to peer inside the room. It’s the living room. And he’s six. And the contact of his father’s backhand across his face knocks him to the floor with a resounding thud as his mother looks on from the kitchen table. He can’t hear her speaking, but he can see the words, “it’s for your own good.”

There are tendrils of cigarette smoke rising from her lips as they move and there’s white powder on the table in front of her, “it’s for your own good,” she repeats silently as his father’s steel-toed boot crashes into his ribs.

He takes a pained breath and the door slams shut in his face, “Mom?” he hears himself wonder, the sound of his voice repeating in the dank hallway. His hand darts away from his side, reaching for the door handle and pulling it open. 

The light is yellow. The smoke is dancing toward the ceiling of his bedroom from the lips of the boy with the fire in his hair. His eyes are scanning over Mickey’s body where he’s lying on the bed, scanning over him, wishing for more, wishing he was more, wishing he was what he needed. Sliding over him anyway to wonder, “you awake?”

His eyes sting as he stands in the doorway, and his mother reminds him, “it’s for your own good,” as the teenagers in the bed wrestle and laugh. And the laughter chimes out, cutting through the pain in his chest, and the fog in his head.

The door slams again. Darkness swallows him whole and his mother’s presence is gone. He takes a deep breath but it shakes and chokes off in his chest. Trying to remember now how that felt. How that felt to think he was happy. How that felt to think he was loved. 

A tear streams down his cheek and his hand rises, as it contacts the doorknob he notices his fingers. His fingers that are bare of ink, bare of scars. But they belong to a grown man. And this time when he pulls the door open, the light is white and blinding. He feels himself walking towards it slowly as though he has no choice. Blinking and shielding his eyes with his hand, “Mom?” hearing himself call out. 

There is nothing. Nothing but white light and white noise, “Mom? I’m sorry,” his voice shudders, “whatever I did, I’ll never do it again, I promise,” he whispers. 

The carpet underfoot is dry. It’s soft. It smells clean, fresh. His cheeks are free of tears but the salt streaks remain. He stops in his tracks when he feels someone near. His arms are rising from his side, and cradling against his chest. He looks down and sees the face he hated, the face he detested, the face he couldn’t bear to look at. Swaddled in a white blanket and held against his chest. A tiny fist laying against his heart, big blue eyes watching him. 

And he’s there. The redheaded boy who maybe used to understand him, who maybe once, maybe one time in the dugout, maybe loved him, for that fleeting moment when his lips were pressed against his shoulder and his breath was rising goosebumps on his spine. He’s there and he’s smiling, he’s watching Mickey and he’s sliding his hands into the cradle against his chest. He’s smiling, his eyes are soft and filled with adoration and he’s leaning towards Mickey, leaning into him. His lips are sweet, delicate and loving when they press into his, Mickey’s heart leaps into his throat and a rush of calm washes over his soul. A type of calm he’s never felt before. A type of love he’s never felt before. An acceptance that was never his.

Never his. It was never his. 

It never will be his.

“It’s for your own good,” he hears her again, whispering in his ear, her hot breath a sharp contrast to the cold Chicago winter air on his neck, “it was always for your own good,” she laughs this time and her hand clamps down on the back of his neck, pulling his body back quickly before tossing him to the side like a rag-doll. His limbs frozen and locked up, his skin burning with frostbite. His chest meets the porch railing and knocks the winds out of his lungs. Pain radiating through his body as he gasps for air, his arm extended, reaching for her, reaching for her as she’s walking away, as she’s walking away and her shape is shifting in the shadows of the backyard. As she’s walking across the snow like she’s walking on water, but she’s not her anymore, she’s shifting into the redheaded dream as he’s walking away. 

————

His eyes open when the pain in his chest knocks the wind out of his lungs. A gasp escapes him, cheeks stinging with silent tears while a hand guides a washrag over his arms. Body throbbing with pain, pain he deserves. A voice thundering in his head over the sound of the water sloshing around him, ‘it’s for your own good’. Over and over, growing to a fever pitch and then receding as the waves of pain nauseate him, bile in the back of his throat and his hands clenched into fists in the water beside his legs. 

“It’s for your own good,” she whispers it, but it’s not her, it’s not Mom. It’s not her, “it’s for your own good,” it’s Terry, “it’s for your own good,” it’s Colin, “it’s for your own good,” it’s Iggy, “it’s for your own good,” it’s Mandy. 

His breath shakes and his vision blurs, floating down from above him is a voice he’s had memorized since he was fifteen. The pitch, the timbre, the tone, the intensity. The speech patterns, “you’re doing fine Mick. Just relax, take a deep breath, you’re doing okay,” as the washrag is guided over his shoulders, letting the water trickle down his back and chest. Drips cascading over the staples and lingering on the stitches, “you need a break?”

The washrag is dipped into the water beside him, swirled around and raised back out, wrung at the back of his neck, “you need a break, or can you lean forward for me?”

The water is warm and the droplets are cool. His flesh responds with goosebumps and his core responds with a shudder, sending pain hurling through his body. 

“Okay. Let’s take a break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm letting Mickey in on Ian's delusion (deleted scene) here because I always felt like there were few times in later seasons that we actually saw Ian loving Mickey the way he deserved to be loved. And Mickey needs to see that too. Especially now.


	15. It's Okay

It’s Okay

 

Ian keeps choking on his breath and hiding the sound of it by swirling the water around Mickey’s body. Hoping, praying, wishing that he won’t hear it, he won’t hear the response Ian is fighting like hell not to have. The response to everything that’s changed. Everything that’s changed since the last time they were in this bathroom together. Since the last time. And he keeps seeing it in his head. And it was nothing special. It was nothing special. 

But it was everything. It was every single thing and Ian never told him that. He never told him that just standing beside him in the bathroom, while he brushed his teeth and his eyes met Ian’s in the mirror. Ian was flossing and when those blue eyes darted over to his, he smiled. And it was everything. It was every fucking thing. He had toothpaste smeared all over his chin and drooling out of the corners of his mouth and Ian wondered how the fuck he still had all his teeth, most all his teeth, and how the fuck they looked so white and perfect all the fucking time when he brushed his teeth every single night like he was mad at them. Mad at them for existing, or for showing when he smiled, or for being there behind his lips when he sneered, or maybe for all the times they drew blood on his bottom lip when he gnawed on it. He looked like a rabid fucking dog and when he smiled at Ian in the reflection another glob of toothpaste spilled out of the right corner of his lips. 

Now, fuck, now he’s shivering in the tub, goosebumps on his flesh, the staples in his chest raw and angry and they had no fucking business releasing him this soon. They had no fucking business streeting him yet. Fuck them. Fuck the system. 

When Ian squeezes the washcloth against the back of his neck, his entire body shudders from head to toe, “okay,” he sighs, “let’s take a break.”

He’s certain Mickey would just sit there, and let him complete the task at hand and never complain. But it’s Ian, it’s Ian who needs the break. He turns the faucet, it squeaks, water halting and stuttering for a moment before it comes on full blast by Mickey’s pale white toes. The shiver shakes it’s way up his body, “sorry,” Ian whispers. Sliding his hand under the stream, letting it shatter against his wrist until it gets hot, steaming into the misty air around the bathroom, swirling the mirror, the mirror where the image of his toothpasted smile is lurking in his mind. He turns his head towards the far wall, unable to meet Mick’s eyes. Unable to scan his body. Unable to see, to look at his body now. The body he used to love touching but he never told him that, he never showed him that, he never allowed himself to just slow down and cherish every single inch of that luminescent flesh. Every line and hair, every pore, every dent and divot and taut muscle line. The way every shadow was cast under the dim glow of the bedroom light. 

He wipes his face into his arm, smearing the snot and tears that he’s hoping to fucking god are silent. A deep breath. He knows, he knows that Mickey didn’t want this. He didn’t want Ian to bathe him. He didn’t want Ian to take care of him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this and he certainly doesn’t want it from Ian. 

But it was now or never. Mandy made Iggy go out to California with her to get her stuff. She was supposed to have more time, more time before they tossed him to the curb. He was barely up under this own power and they were packing his belongings and shipping him out. Signing papers and wheeling him out the door into the cold Chicago winter. Not caring, not caring where he went from there, the only thing they cared about, the only thing they’re forced to care about, is that the patient leaves under their own steam. The don’t care if they’re treated to the full extent of their needs. They don’t care if they’re mentally ready to leave, if they’re emotionally ready to leave. They don’t fucking care.

Another deep breath and he turns his head. Beach glass, rubbed smooth by the tumbling of waves, made cloudy by the scrubbing of sand. Blue beach glass, “Mick,” it breathes out of his mouth and the blue glass is shattered and hidden behind the lids. Disappearing, tumbling under the waves and smashed against the shore. 

Ian clears his throat, “ready?” 

Those eyes don’t open, they don’t shift beneath the lids. But his body moves. It leans forward, giving Ian the access to his back. His heart catches and his breath chokes off when his eyes land on the constellation of freckles on his right shoulder blade. The constellation that Ian used to rest his cheek against. It’s gone. It’s gone. Replaced by scar tissue and the ring of human teeth marks, as though it was bitten off his body. 

His mouth suddenly tastes like metal and his hand is shaking this time when it rises with the warm cloth to smooth over his shoulders. Biting back a sob, clamping down on his lower lip with his teeth. The water rushing into the tub is barely audible over the rushing of blood in his ears, but he’s certain he hears Mickey’s gasp. A breath that shakes, he stands suddenly, stepping over the ledge of the tub with trembling legs, “I’m done.”

'What’s done is done.' 

“Okay, just,” clearing his throat again, hoping to chase down the thickness of tears and rising emotions that he can’t bear to let rise, “take it slow.”

And it should be a, ‘no fuck Sherlock’, or at the very least a middle finger salute. But it’s nothing. It’s silence. Just as it has been. Just as it has been for the days since Ian rushed through that front door.

It’s the sound of his bare feet, dripping water and sliding across the tiles. 

Ian turns off the faucet. And a memory so sharp edged and broken rips through his chest, clutching his heart as he remembers, he remembers being the one in the tub. He remembers Mickey’s rough and gentle hand, his soft voice while he rubbed shampoo through Ian’s hair, his fingers lingering at his temples, tilting his head back so fucking tenderly but without pity and without judgement. Tilting his head back while he slowly poured a cup of water out, letting it fall through the tendrils of his hair. Following the water with his fingers. And doing it again. And again until the soap was rinsed. 

And Ian never said thank you. He never said fucking thank you. 

'You can’t fix me.'

Clamping down on his lip again, listening to the bathroom door squeal and he’ll have to add that to his list of things to do around here. 

A temporary leave of absence. That’s what they settled on. His vacation, sick time, personal time, the whole lot of it will be used first. And then when the paychecks run out, it’ll be unpaid, but his benefits will remain and his job will still be his when he comes back for it. When he comes back for it after Mickey is okay, after Mickey is alright, after he’s back on his feet and he’s functioning, he’s okay, he’s, fuck, he’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. Ian can make this okay. 

He listens as his feet shuffle across the floor, the bedroom door opens and latches shut. 

He releases his lip and the tears fall, they fall down his cheeks and linger at the corner of his mouth and spill over his jaw and trail down his neck under the collar of his shirt. He stays on his knees, he stays there with his elbows on the ledge of the tub. The tub where he gave Yev the first bath he ever gave him, where he showed Mickey how to bathe an infant, how to test the temperature of the water, how to cradle him so he feels secure, how to clean him without scrubbing him. How to find the little milk balls in his neck rolls and gently peel them away. How to cuddle and love him, make it a game, make it interesting and make him laugh. The baby that Mickey couldn’t stand to look at. The baby that Mickey couldn't stand to hold. 

And he had every fucking right to hate that baby. And Ian never talked to him about it. He never fucking talked to him about it. 

“Fuck,” frustration bubbles in his chest and broils it’s way to the back of his throat as he watches the water swirl down the drain. The water tinted pink, pink with blood. 

————

The bathroom is clean, he scrubbed every single surface, even cleaned out the medicine cabinet. His hands stopped shaking finally when he was sorting the towels, smelling them for cleanliness when his scent glands inhaled the distinct odor of Mickey. He closed his eyes and let himself remember. He let himself remember when that scent was his. His before the rapist and the whore and the marriage and the baby. His before the bipolar and the delusions and the paranoia and the hyper-sexuality. 

When that scent was his. 

Slowly, he pushes the bedroom door open, eyes scanning the room. Mandy did a sweep of the house for drugs and booze while Iggy was puking his guts out and shaking out the withdrawals. She tidied the place quickly, but there’s still so much to do. Fuck, Ian will probably end up tearing out the old carpeting and sanding down the hardwood beneath before he leaves this house. A fresh coat of paint on the walls and cabinets. This place could be presentable without much of a money investment. Just time. Just time.

He sucks in a shallow breath, leaning against the doorframe to keep himself up. Taking the images slowly, he’s learned in the last few days that it has to be taken slowly. The sheet is laying loosely around his body, the damp towel still tucked around him. On his side, facing the wall, back to the door. It makes Ian’s heart lurch, his hands tucked up to the side of his head, covering his ears. 

A boy that was always ready for a fight, a teenager that was always alert even in sleep, a man that was waiting, always waiting for the carefully constructed house of cards to fall to the floor. Now, now he’s shut down and hiding inside himself. He’s not caring what the world has to throw at him, he’s given up. 

Fuck, his lip trembles again and he bites it so hard it nearly makes him yelp. Fuck. This isn’t yours, this isn’t yours to cry over. This is yours. This is yours to fix.

He takes the steps slowly, “Mick,” gently, warning him he’s coming, he’s walking towards him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stir, doesn’t breathe. He’s shivering, his hair is still damp and Ian wonders what the thermostat is set at. He’s been chilly every time he sits still, but he’s been mostly keeping himself moving, keeping himself busy to distract, to stay grounded, to feel his body moving though his mind is wanting to derail and let the world fall apart around him as he wraps his arms around Mickey and forces him to want this, to want to live, to want to breathe, to want to keep moving.

Every step he takes is an image, a memory, some foggy, some crisp and clear. This one, this one that’s crashing into his head now, echoing in his ears as he steps over to the bed, this one is Mickey’s voice. His voice so far away but right outside the door, ‘let me take care of him. I can take care of him.’ 

“Hey,” keeping his voice calm, steady, “let’s get rid of that cold towel, huh?” his fingers are sliding over the cotton and gently peeling it away from Mickey’s shoulders. 

Every single fucking inch of him is something he didn’t notice before, every single inch is a scar. A bite mark, a layer of peeled off skin, a burn, a cut. 

“Just going to take the wet towel,” he has to keep talking, he has to keep reminding him where he is and who he’s with. Whatever Hell he lived through in the last eleven years, with the indicators on his flesh, he has to know now, he has to know now that he’s safe and that it’s Ian touching him.

Even knowing that it is not Ian whose help he wants, or caring he wants. Or if he wants anyone’s caring, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, what matters is what he needs right now. He needs someone who fucking cares, someone who fucking understands. And Ian understands, he understands enough to know what it’s like to be the one lying in that bed with the weight of nothingness heavy on his chest and weighing his limbs down under the pressure of not wanting to exist anymore. 

“I’m just taking the towel, okay? I won’t make you get up, I won’t make you get dressed. Just taking the towel.”

It’s a struggle, but eventually he pulls it out from beneath his unmoving form. His eyes are open and fixed on the wall, unblinking, his breath barely detectable. 

“Okay,” fuck, it hurts every single fucking time he looks at him, at his eyes that used to be so full of everything, of everything, and now they’re dull and they’re lifeless and he can’t breathe when he looks at them, and it’s different from the way he used to be unable to breathe when he looked for too long at Mickey. Back then it was trying to breathe over the butterflies and frantic flapping of excitement in his chest and his throat when those sparkling eyes would land on his, “I’m going to pull the blankets up. You’re cold.”

Goddamnit he wants the snark and the snap and the sarcasm that could cut right through his armor and rise a stupid fucking smile on his face because he knew, he knew Mickey’s snappy comebacks were always just his defense mechanism. That he never meant any of that shit to cut, every time he called Ian shithead or fuckface, it was with this look of love in his eyes that would splash across that ocean, throwing brilliant sparkles of sunshine over the surface of his shitty life. The brilliant sparkles of sunshine that were reserved just for Ian. Ian was the glittering dancing rays of hope that hid the turmoil underneath. And he never saw that. He never fucking saw that. 

Fuck, he was just a kid. He was just a kid. He was just a kid. But Mickey was a man. 

It’s fucking cold in here. The window is drafty and the thermostat must be set just high enough that the pipes don’t freeze. Now that he’s sitting still for long enough to cool off, for his heart rate to slow down, he’s feeling it. He’s feeling the cold seeping into his body and he’s watching Mickey’s unmoving face and he’s wishing something, anything would register on that face. Those brows would rise and his voice would exit so harsh and loving at the same time, ‘the fuck you lookin’ at?’

But it doesn’t. He watches his own hand rise, sliding through his damp hair. Those beach glass eyes close on contact and a sharp inhale passes his lips. It hurts. Physical touch hurts. Ian had forgotten that. It makes all the nothingness inside feel raw and jolt though his system, pulsate at that point of skin on skin. 

His hand recoils and he tucks the blankets up tight to Mickey’s shivering body. 

'Leave me alone.'

He doesn’t have to say it. And Ian doesn’t have to hear it. He knows. And he knows he doesn’t mean it, he never meant it, he never meant it when he shouted it at Mickey. When Mickey was taking care of him. And all he could do was shout at him. And force him to leave, to walk away, to not care. The last thing a person wants when they can’t care about themselves is for someone else to keep fucking caring. 

“I’m going to make lunch,” he announces, turning towards the bedroom door and taking a deep breath. Stopping in the open space, hand on the frame, admitting, “I know it doesn’t matter to you. Right now, maybe ever again, but I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

————

The soup has grown cold on the table beside the bed. His hand has left his ear to rest on the pillow in front of his face. His face that’s still aimed at the wall. Eyes open, unfocused. 

Ian cleaned the kitchen, threw out about three trash bags full of old food and moldy containers. Scrubbed the fridge that had probably not been cleaned since Svet lived here. He put all the beer on the back porch and texted Kev. Get rid of it, might as well let someone else enjoy it. 

He didn’t bother telling Mandy that he was released. He’s certain they haven’t even packed up her belongings yet, but he knows she would leave it all behind at this point and just come back if she knew. She was adamant about moving back to Chicago. There would be no temporary leave of absence for her, it was home or it was nothing. 

He drags a kitchen chair into the room, sets it beside the bed, nearly between Mickey and his focal point. But not quite. He needs to be in his peripheral. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t attempt to make eye contact. Ian knows this part. He knows this part where he’s lying in bed unable to think straight, unable to see the world past the end of his nose, unable to understand that there is anything left out there worth feeling. Everything inside his body dull, muted. Everything inside his mind whirring with a slow grey storm cloud of worthlessness and self-loathing.

His own mind is the enemy. Whatever is locked into his memories and branded into his brain, on top of the markings on his body. Ian’s eyes linger on his fingers, holding there, knowing the more often he sees them, the sooner he has them memorized for what they are now, the less it’ll hurt. These, these scars, these marks, these are a part of him now. A part of him no less than the promise they used to hold. 

Ian watches as the pointer finger twitches, feeling his eyes there, knowing, even through the fog as thick as pea soup that he’s wading through, even through the haze, he can feel Ian’s eyes on his flesh. The fingers slide over the heavy blanket that’s resting on his shoulder, tugging it up tighter, hiding his face before his hand disappears beneath it. From the shape of the blanket, Ian can tell they come to rest on his face. His hand is covering his eye and the smallest, nearly inaudible, gasp escapes the pile of blankets. 

Mickey can’t bear to be touched but Ian can’t bear not to reach out. 

“Don’t,” it chokes off and quivers before Ian’s hand can make contact. 

Fuck, all those nights, all those days with Mickey lying behind him in this very bed. Not close enough to touch, but there, right there, his body heat radiating off him to caress Ian’s skin and his whispers. His reassurances that it was okay to feel like shit, that it was normal to feel like shit sometimes. That it was okay and the Mickey still loved him. 

And fuck, Ian is not allowed to do that. He is not allowed to lie in this bed with this man and whisper against the pillow behind his head. He is not allowed to lie behind him and envelope him in his warmth without touching him. 

The only part of him that Ian can see is his black hair peeking out from between the pillow and the blanket. 

He is not allowed to get in that bed. He is not allowed to touch him. Just the bath, the bath was overwhelming and painful and not only embarrassing, that a grown man needs someone to wash his body with a washrag when he can’t do it himself, it is demeaning and emasculating. And Ian fucking knows that. And Mickey never made him feel bad about it. He never once made him feel bad about needing him. Even when Ian hated himself for needing him. For dragging him down with him, for holding him down and keeping him there. 

He is not allowed to get in that bed. It is not his bed. It is not his man. It is not his home. It is not his. He is not allowed to just lower himself down to the empty side of the mattress, he is not allowed to slide near, but not near enough to touch. He is not allowed to let Mickey feel his body weight and know that he is here. He is right here on the mattress next to him, he is not allowed to do that. He is not allowed to lie here, in this bed, in this same bed where they made love for the first time. The first time they held each other long after the act was complete, they pressed lips to lips and cheeks and jaws and necks. They nuzzled into one another and breathed on each others’ bare flesh. 

He is not allowed to get in that bed. That bed where he sat with Mickey when Mickey was feeding Yev the first bottle he ever fed him. And he watched those blue orbs watching that baby, looking at his face for as long as he could possibly stand it. He watched as Mickey’s frame started to soften and his face relaxed while the baby’s eyes drifted shut and his tiny hand fell to rest overtop of Mickey’s. 

He is not allowed to lie behind him on this mattress. He is not allowed to shift and slide until he is close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. His is not allowed to get into this bed that holds so many memories, this bed that contains all the scents that it’s always contained. This bed that contains the man he thought he’d love for the rest of his life. When did he stop? When did he stop loving him?

Was it through the glass? Was it through the meds? Was it through the disorder? Or the wife and the baby and the rape and the abusive father? When was it?

When did he stop loving that boy in the dugout? The one that was fucked for life. The one that pissed on first base.

He is not allowed to climb into that bed. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

Nothing matters. Nothing more than sliding into that bed. Nothing more than lying behind him. Not close enough to touch. Only close enough to feel. Nothing more than settling into the pillow behind his head. Nothing more than taking a deep inhale through his nose and letting all that scent familiar and unfamiliar gather in his brain and tingle down his spine. Nothing more than, “it’s okay to feel like shit. It’s okay to feel like shit sometimes. It is normal to feel like shit. It is normal to feel like shit sometimes and I love you. I still love you. I never fucking stopped.”


	16. Even Then

Even Then

 

He has watched the same bowl of soup grow cold three times. Gelatinous. He has watched it. He has listened while Ian’s body shifted behind him on the mattress. He has heard him breathe. And move. And readjust and get up to reheat the soup. He has watched his hand extend with the bowl and spoon, set it on the table beside the bed.

He has heard him walk in and out. He has listened to him sigh. His hands running over his face in desperation. His footfalls urgent sounding even though nothing in here is happening. Nothing in this house is happening.

He has heard the furnace kick on. He knows the warm air is filtering through the vents. He has watched it move the curtain on the window. The curtain that is open, weak winter light filtering into the room with a soft yellow hue. 

He knows Ian has readjusted the blankets over him. Multiple times. He knows the shadows on the wall have shifted to darkness and the dim glow of the kitchen light is starting to snake across the bedroom. The door left open. And he can see Ian’s shadow on the wall every time he walks past. Every time he stops and lingers in the doorway. Every time his eyes fall over Mickey’s body. Every time they remain there. On whatever part of him he can see. 

He can hear him in the kitchen. He can hear him at the table. The chair on the hardwood. The sound of dinner. He can hear it like shouts in his head. Booming in his ears. Splitting through his mind. Every single whisper a shout. Every single breath a scream. Every single squeaky floorboard a razor down his spine. And every single time those eyes crawl over him it sets his skin on fire, the fire of a million ants gnawing on his flesh. The fire of the lighter he used to burn off his name. The flame of the match he used to lick the ink off his fingers. The aching slicing burn of the shiv he used to remove layer after layer of his own body, of his own being, of his own soul. The warm blood turning cool as it trickled through every crack and crevice of his skin, down his fingers, down his chest, growing cold as it caressed his fingertips, his stomach. 

The hardest part was the first one. The first letter. The I. The first one, the first slice was too far. It was too much blood. It trickled down his stomach and into his pubic hair. He watched it as is gathered there and started to dry, standing in the middle of the six by six cell in solitary. Watching the cinderblock walls and allowing the blood to pool in his belly button. Trailing a finger through it and writing his own name on the wall. His own name. The one thing that no one could take away from him. The one thing that was always true. The one thing that was always there. Even when his soul was missing. Even when his love was gone and nothing remained but hate. Even when his joy had gone out the door on the hip of his wife. And all that remained was anger. Even when the stars had faded in his green irises, when there was nothing left but a dull throbbing ache of darkness. Even when he looked at him like he was nothing more than a shell of what used to be. Through the plexiglass. Across a phone line. 

Even then, he had a name.

————

He watches as the sun starts to slide into the bedroom. The dim, dull, rays of winter creeping across the bedroom floor. Reaching over the bed and splashing on the wall. He knows it’s happening. Another day is happening. 

He knows Ian is lying beside him. Behind him. He hasn’t moved in hours. He knows that. He can hear him breathing. He knows he rolled over, that his hand accidentally brushed Mickey’s back. He knows that.

But he can’t feel it. He can’t feel a fucking thing. 

————

“Well we have to get you back to the doctor this afternoon. And the thing is, if you go back starved and dehydrated, they’ll readmit you. They’ll put the restraints back on, they’ll poke you with an IV and a catheter. They’ll wheel you up to psych tomorrow and they’ll keep you there. They’ll overmedicate you. You’ll be staring at the wall for days and this nothingness that you feel right now, it’ll be more like a drug induced coma. Drug induced comas, you still feel physical pain. You’ll still be able to feel it when they remove the staples in a couple days. And honestly, the lower two look pretty fucking bad. Then they’ll cart you back out of there when your seventy-two hour hold is up, they’ll call your PO and he’ll haul you to prison. Your lawyer, she’s been doing everything she can to avoid going back, but the thing is, all the agreements that were made have to be followed through on. And one of them right now, is that you’ll follow the treatment plan.”

His voice trails off and his face appears beside the bed, squatting down between Mickey and the wall, “you broke parole. Drugs. Guns. System’s overloaded. They don’t want you back anymore than you want to go back. But, the only way to stay out is to follow the rules. To follow the plan that your lawyer and your PO have set. Which today means getting out of bed, drinking some fucking water, eating something, anything. Taking a bath. Getting dressed and going down to the office to see Dr Jackson, he’s your primary care physician now. If I haul you down there like this, he’s going to admit you. If you get admitted then you’ll end up back behind bars. Got it?”

————

Every time his body shakes it makes Ian’s hand clamp down harder on his fingers. He can see it. And every time Ian’s finger slathers more antibiotic ointment on the staples, his body shudders. 

“Jesus fuck Mick,” his voice is irritated, thick, and shaky. So is the breath he takes, his hand releasing Mickey’s just to rise and slide through his own hair, “fuck,” standing suddenly, turning to the sink to wash them clean again. He sits back down and Mickey knows that his eyes are on his. That he’s waiting. For something. Anything. 

Ian’s breathing is huffy and half-panicked. His hands are shaking. Unrolling some gauze. Re-covering the wound. 

“Okay, fuck,” he tugs the towel tighter around Mickey’s waist and his hands come down on his shoulders to steer him out the door. He knows this, he knows what’s happening, but he doesn’t feel a fucking thing. He can’t. He can’t feel a fucking thing. If he feels any of it, he’ll feel it all.


	17. The House Beside The L

The House Beside The L

 

Ian plops down in the kitchen chair. Hand through his hair as he watches Mickey make his way slowly back to his bedroom. Pulling the door shut behind him. When it latches and the handle is released, Ian’s exhale shakes. He can’t do this. This. It’s too fucking hard. It’s too hard to see Mickey like this. It’s too hard to see him so fucking broken. So full of pain and hurt and so empty of life.

“Fuck,” he hears his own voice, and it sounds raw. His hands shake when he slides his phone out of his pocket, sending Debbie a quick text to check in, that’s the intention, just to check in and see how her day went, see how Franny’s doing, let her know he’s still here, he’s still right down the street if she needs him. Or if Liam needs him, or if Carl shows up. 

But that isn’t how it happens, what comes out and gets sent is, ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

He watches it happen, he watches the message sent, sending, delivered. And he watches the phone turn face down and get set on the table as his arms slide across the surface and his forehead meets the cool wood. He listens through the closed door as Mickey’s belt buckle jingles, a sound that used to set his hormones buzzing and his mind honing in on one thing only. But now, right now, it’s rising a burning ache in his soul, like a part of him is pulling away from his body. A part of him that he ignored the existence of, he ignored it. 

Fuck, and now? Now that part of him is dying, it’s been dying since he sat on the other side of that glass and said, ‘sure Mick, I’ll wait’. 

His face twists, throat constricting, forcing the tears to stay down. To stay down. Mickey is not in bed yet, and if he comes out here, if he decides to come out and eat then he can’t see tears. The last thing he needs to see are tears. 

————

Debbie drops the plates in the sink, wipes down the counters before her eyes land on Ian. 

“I’ll clean it up,” he tells her weakly.

She shrugs, “don’t worry about it. I’m here.”

“Yeah,” his eyes scan over to the shut bedroom door, lingering there like he can will him to come out. 

“You, um,” her closed hand finds his on the table, opening when his does, dropping his pills into his palm, “taking care of yourself?”

“Yeah,” assuring her, knowing this would come up.

“Good. You get outside today?”

“Yep. Went for a walk while he was in with the doctor and the shrink.”

“Okay.”

“Fuck. How’s Fran? I feel like I haven’t seen her in a month.”

She sighs heavily, heavily enough that Ian peels his eyes off the closed door, chasing his pills down and meeting her gaze, “she’s fine. She’s begging me for an iPhone. Like I can fucking afford that? Like an nine year old needs a phone? What was I doing when I was nine?” her eyes roll back in her head while she thinks it over, “fuck, I was helping run the daycare by then. Chasing Carl down for putting Barbies in the microwave. Running scams with Frank.”

Ian feels a smile, it’s weak, but it’s there, tugging at his lips while he watches her face. The sound of her voice, as she turns to start on the dishes in the sink, the continued narrative over her daughter. It’s incredible, it’s admirable how great she’s done with her daughter. How much she cares. And it shows. It shows in Franny’s attitude and her smile. She doesn’t have all the things that a lot of nine year olds have, but she has love. She has a roof over her head and food in her belly. She has a mom who is dedicated as fuck to her. Sure, it’s helps that Liam is willing to babysit when he can, it helps that Ian is around as much as he can be. Debbie has a small support system, but it’s a dedicated one. 

“You want me to come back tomorrow morning so you can go for a run or something?”

“No, no that’s fine, you’ve…”

“Okay, I’ll be here at nine. Franny is sleeping over at a friend’s house tonight, so I’m going out for a couple, but not much,” she shrugs, “so nine should work just fine. When is Mandy going to be back?”

“I haven’t even told her yet that he’s home.”

Her eyes bug a little and then roll, “of course you haven’t. You stubborn ass.”

“I don’t want her to worry, you know, rush back home and end up in a car wreck or something.”

She scoffs at him but a smile tugs at her lips, like she knew that shit about him before he knew it, “alright, just don’t push yourself past your limit. Please.”

“I know.”

“And call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

She stops at the end of the counter, appraising his face for a long moment, “okay. Well I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Yep,” when her hand lands on his shoulder, he tries a reassuring smile at her, clamping down on her hand with his own, “thanks Debs.”

“Don’t thank me. Just take care of yourself,” leaning down to kiss the side of his head quickly, “and him,” she adds when she stands and her eyes land on the bedroom door.

————

And him. And him. Echoing in his mind, imprinted in his eyelids every time he blinks. And him. And him.

Fuck, how? How the fuck does he take care of him?

He slides into the bedroom. Quietly, knowing, he knows this part. He knows how it feels to be stuck in bed. He knows. But he doesn’t know how to fucking fix this. How do you fucking fix this when it’s this bad? When it’s more than just the demons in your head? When it’s real, when the demons took real shape, walked in true form, left physical damage, emotional damage. When the scars on the outside will never go away and the scars on the inside run even deeper. 

“Mick?” it’s barely a whisper, taking a seat on the end of the bed gently, “you awake?”

He can’t go around the bed, he can’t look at his face, at his gorgeous face with his sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, with the ghosts fogging his once clear irises. 

He doesn’t move but Ian knows by his breathing pattern that he’s still awake, “look, I know you don’t want to, but can you please drink some water?”

Nothing. He didn’t expect anything anyway. Sucking his lower lip into his teeth to keep it from trembling, “okay. I’ll leave some water by the bed. If there was any chance you’d eat something, what would it be? Debbie and I had chicken marsala. But that seems…” his voice trails off for a moment as his eyes scan over the form beneath the sheets. Reaching out to pull the quilt up, “if you have’t eaten anything in a few days, that wouldn’t settle well. Rice? Clearly the soup was a no go. I’ll cook some rice.”

When he tucks the quilt under his shoulder, he flinches, “fuck, okay. I’ll leave you be. But I’m leaving the door open,” he wants to run his fingers through his hair, he wants to lay with him, hold him in his arms, whisper against his ear that he is loved, he is wanted, that his life has been hard as fuck but it’s not worth giving up on. It’s not worth giving up on.

It’s not worth giving up on, he stops in the doorway, “it sounds stupid, I know, but it does help to talk. The shrink, fuck, I know they seem like pretentious assholes, all of them do. But it helps Mick. It helps to talk to someone who has heard it all before. If you want a different psychiatrist we can find you one, we can find whatever you need, we can find one who has heard it all if you don’t think this one has. And there’s, there’s, um, me. You can say, you can talk about anything. I won’t judge and I won’t pity. But I will listen.”

————

Some of the water is gone by the time Ian comes back into the bedroom to sleep. Even though he should be sleeping in one of the other rooms, or on the couch, or on the floor. But he can’t, he can’t leave Mickey alone. He can’t leave him to his own devices. Even if he seems like he’s down for the count, underneath that depression and unmoving, barely breathing form it’s still Mickey. And if Mickey wants something badly enough, he’ll figure out a way to get it. 

Fuck, Ian shudders at the thought, “Mick?”

Nothing. Of course.

“May I, um, is it okay, if I lay down with you?”

He didn’t ask, last night, he didn’t ask, and he should have. Even if Mickey doesn’t respond, even if he’s not capable of responding, he can at least offer him the choice.

“Okay, I’m just going to lay down, is that alright?”

He lays down on top of the quilt, knowing keeping the layers between them is the right thing to do. He has no idea the things Mickey went through in prison, but if the marks mean anything, fuck, his hand darts out to graze the surface of his scarred shoulder, the shoulder that used to contain a galaxy, not just a constellation, it was a fucking galaxy of faded freckles, a galaxy of possibilities, the same ones that used to spin on the ocean in his eyes, the sky clear of clouds and endless. Endless. 

When he hears Mickey’s breath shake he withdraws his hand, “sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t.”

“Apologize?”

“Treat me like,” his voice is gruff, crusty, quiet, “a fuckin’ human.”

The ache reverberates through his core, across every nerve, burning over his flesh, making every hair stand on end, “you are a human.”

Barely a motion, but his head shakes, barely detectably. 

“You are a human Mick,” it’s only a whisper, clearing his throat, and repeating. Louder this time, firmer, “you are a human Mickey,” his hand is lingering over his shoulder again, wanting so badly to touch, to feel, to brand his fingerprints over the bite marks, over the ripped off flesh, “you are a human. You are a human,” his fingertips barely brush against his skin, producing a gasp, “Mickey, you are a human,” fingertips, fingers. The warmth, the heat of this man, sparking against the palm of Ian’s hand, “you are a human.”

His head shakes and another gasp escapes. Ian’s hand flattens against his shoulder blade, “you are a human Mickey. Mick. You are a human. Mikhailo,” sliding his hand over to his arm, “Mikhailo Aleksandr you are a human. You are a human.”

He hasn’t flinched at the contact, he hasn’t pulled away. A third gasp pulses through Ian’s system from Mickey’s body, “you are a beautiful human Mick.”

Fuck, he wants to slide closer, he wants to wrap his arms around him, he wants to curl his legs against his, he wants to feel his ribs against his hands, he wants to listen to his heart beating, he wants to lean his forehead against his spine and he wants to breathe him in. He wants to fill his senses with Mickey. And never fucking let go.

————

Shit, when his eyes blink open in the grey morning light of winter, he’s gone. The bed creased where he was sleeping, Ian’s hand lying on the empty space. It’s damp. Fuck, his eyes dart open, jolting to seated. Fuck, the dampness is pink, his hand flattens over the sheet, it’s soaked. Fuck, how the fuck was he even hydrated enough to sweat that much? 

Fuck, “Mick?” he’s out of bed and making his way to the bathroom, “Mickey? You in there?” hand flat on the door, “Mickey? Hey, can I open the door, please? You don’t have to, I just, will you talk to me? Just say ‘fuck off’, that’s,” his hand is on the knob, “enough, that would be enough.”

Not a sound. Fuck, heart in his throat, vision jumping as he shoves the door open. Fuck, shit. He falls to his knees beside the tub. The tub where Mickey is sitting, knees drawn to his chest. No water in it. Still in his underwear. Face hidden. 

“Mick,” he breathes, his hands rising, finding Mickey’s head, sliding though his hair. Heart pounding hard in his ribcage as his lips meet the top of his head, “fuck. You’re fucking burning up.”

His hands slide down his back, noticing now the shaking of shivers under the sheen of sweat, “okay, alright, you’re okay. Let’s get you dressed,” his body shudders against Ian’s, “shit, Mickey,” taking a deep breath of his hair while he’s here, “can you stand? Can you get up? Let’s get you dressed. Shit, you’re okay Mick. It’s a fever, it’s probably an infection, fuck. How the fuck didn’t that fucker yesterday… fuck,” frustration rising from his core, he bites it back, “okay, I’m going to help you stand, is that okay?”

————

“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit, he needs a different doctor. You know? One who gives a fuck. One who does something simple like take his fucking temperature at the beginning of every fucking exam. One who actually looks at the wounds that he’s supposed to be fucking looking at,” his hands have flown up from his side, flopped back down to his hips, slid over his forehead.

The guy at the desk doesn’t seem to give a fuck either. Just watching him while he slides the forms across the desk, “check over the information and initial it please sir.”

“We were just fucking here yesterday. Do you really think his information has changed overnight? And he is not seeing Dr Jackson. He is not seeing that prick.”

“PA Henderson is the lucky winner today,” he narrows his eyes at Ian.

Ian’s mouth opens to bite back but a hand lands hard on his shoulder, half shoving him out of the way. His eyes dart over to the offender, only to be met with a head of wild red hair and a supportive gaze, her hand finding his at his side, sliding a lunch bag into it. Fuck, “Debs, you can’t just…”

“Shut the fuck up Ian. Eat and take your meds,” her finger is aimed at the waiting room chairs, the place where Mickey is sitting curled into himself and shivering, “I’ve got this.”

————

“I fucked up Debs,” sighing into his hands, elbows propped on the kitchen table.

“How?”

“I should have known, I should have felt that he was too hot, I should have known when he was shivering his ass off, I should…”

Her hands smack, palm down on the table in front of him, “stop. Get up, get your running shoes on, and get the fuck out that door.”

“Debs, I…”

This time her hands come down on his shoulders, giving a tight squeeze before she shakes him, leaning in close to his face, “Ian. Nothing is going to happen in the next hour. Go. Please.”

————

The wind is cold on his face, burning his lungs with every inhale. Watching his breath cloud into a fine mist in the frozen air. Hearing the crunching of ice and snow under his shoes, the layers of his clothing swishing as he moves. He feels his heart beating in his ears, his muscles stretching, burning, aching. An ache that he asked for. An ache that spreads and spiderwebs through every single vein in his body. The blood rushing through his system, every footfall a step forward. Every movement coordinated, planned, flowing together. His peripheral vision nothing more than the blur of the city, city to park to shoreline. Shoreline. Frozen and broken, waves pushing the ice towards shore, towards the concrete barriers and smashing it before drawing it back out into the deep blue water. 

Ian stops, he stands on the ledge. The concrete dusted with snow like powdered sugar as it lifts into a tornado, swirling around beside him before delicately leaping off the ledge and dancing toward the lake. 

The cold wind nips at his neck and burns his ears. Removing his gloves and reaching out, flattening his hands palm down in front of him. Watching, waiting for his vision to blur and sharpen only to blur again. Waiting until it looks as though his fingers are touching the ice encrusted waves. Closing his eyes, waiting until his fingers begin to tingle with cold. Burn with the pricks of a million needles.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, opening his mouth to the ice crystals in the air. The snow swirling again in the wind until his teeth are cold like he’s just eaten ice cream. He removes his hat, waiting for the wind to comb his hair. To push the sweat away from his forehead towards his crown. Hardening each strand, crystalizing the red and orange. Iced-over fire. 

“Fuck,” he hears himself whisper through his teeth that have become painful, his lips that are dry and burning. His mouth that is frozen, jaw slow to respond.

Cold. Cold has seeped into his pores, dried his sweat and frozen his flesh. His eyes have opened, refocused on the waves. His ears have listened, to the water and the wind and his own breath. 

He has felt his body, he has felt his surroundings, he has felt himself. And he turns around. And he heads home. He heads home to the house beside the L. Home to the house with the pealing paint, the stained carpet, the chipped linoleum, the single-paned windows, and the man. The man lying in bed, with pale skin covered in scars. With dark hair streaked with grey. With bright eyes fogged over by pain. With a voice, no more than a whispered sigh when Ian sits down on the bed beside him. This time in front of him, his hip against his thigh, his hand meeting his temple, sliding back through his hair and lingering there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inhale...
> 
> Okay, sorry again for bombarding you guys with updates today, but I wanted at least some of the pain to recede before I took a break. Hopefully tomorrow will bring a few more chapters. 
> 
> But we're seeing some things we need to see right? Ian putting aside his life, but maintaining his stability, to take care of Mickey. Now we need more support system to fall into place. And we need Mickey to feel something... anything. 
> 
> Thanks friends, glad to have you here :)


	18. Loud Things Quiet

Loud Things Quiet

 

Fuck, old furniture is heavy. This couch. The couch. This is the first thing leaving this house and if it only makes it as far as under the L for some bum to camp out on, then so be it. He’ll leave it on the curb for a few days with a free sign, if it’s not gone by the end of the weekend maybe he’ll torch it. Fuck, maybe he’ll torch it anyway. Maybe that can erase it, some of it, some of the image of his face. That morning.

“Fuck,” a new found surge of energy to shoulder the couch through the door, onto the snow-dusted front porch. 

He takes a breather, heads to the counter for a grateful chug of water. Scanning the living room without the couch, it’s not a bad room. New curtains. Rip up the carpet. This could be a nice house. His eyes catch something on the floor, something that was under the couch. Hidden in a cloud of dust bunnies, taking the steps over, stooping to pick it up, shake it off. His breath catches in his throat and his heart lodges itself squarely on his windpipe. A rubber teething disk. Black, shaped like a train. 

It sits heavily on his sternum, the image of Mickey sitting on the couch with a red-faced Yev, drool running down his chin and the rubber train in Mickey’s FUCK grip. He was running it along the baby’s lower lip, voice quiet, urging him to just chew on the fucker. The big alligator tears were silent when Mickey turned the baby to face him, putting the disk in his own mouth to show him. His brows were up and he looked like he was on the verge of tears himself. Ducking down towards the baby, one end still pinched between his teeth while he got face-to-face with the miserable offender on his knee. Leaning forward until the free end graced the open mouth of the baby, a silent smile rising around the rubber when Yev finally took the first chomp of the teether, 'there, now you don’t gotta eat my fingers, fuck only knows where they’ve been anyway.’

“Shit,” he slides the disk into his back pocket and goes after the couch tenaciously until he’s shouldered it down the porch steps and onto the sidewalk. 

His breath coming out in frozen gasps and frustration clouding his vision, making it hard to focus but the voice that curses, “fucking Gallaghers,” is immediately recognizable through the fog as Kev takes a firm hold on the opposite side of the couch, “where we goin’ with this?”

He cocks his head towards the L tracks and lifts his end of the couch. When they drop it in the frosted grass, his eyes glance over Kev, “you still in touch with Svet?”

He shrugs, “doubt she wants Mick to be a part of that kid’s life if that’s why you’re wondering.”

“I don’t care what she wants. Kid is his too.”

His eyes linger on Ian’s face for a long moment, the debate raging clearly across his irises. A long exhale, immediately crystallizing in the air between them, “gimme your phone.”

“Gimme your lighter,” he responds as he tosses the phone across the couch. 

Catching the lighter, sliding it into his pocket as he rips open the first cushion. The voice echoing in his ears, the sound of his voice, the sight of the gun, the feel of his fist, the sound of steel on bone. He tears open the second cushion. The sight of the blood, and his blue eyes, searching and not finding. His breath is choked off as he rips the third one, watching the image of her grinding on his lap. 

The spark of the lighter. Yellow, blue, white. His eyes. His blue eyes. They were so clear, so sharp, and so fucking defeated when he took a hold of her and took control on that fucking couch. This fucking couch.

Ian takes a few steps back, feeling Kev beside him doing the same thing. His hand comes up to scrub at his face, like he can physically wash his memories with the palm of his hand. Or maybe if he rubs hard enough he can go back, he can wake up from the nightmare of that day, he can wake up that morning instead and insist that they head to work. That they get to the store on time. That they save the last round for later, fuck, that they pray the rosary for giants at the abandoned buildings later. Somewhere they can go that no one else knows. That there’s no chance of being interrupted. 

Fuck, if he stands here long enough with his eyes closed, feeling the heat of the fire licking his soul clean, he can wake up that morning on the couch. He can nuzzle his way into Mickey’s neck and instead of fucking him like he never mattered, he can take him to his bedroom and love him. He can lock the door behind him and he can linger over every single inch of his pale flesh.

Or he can go back to the fucking abandoned building that afternoon, he can stand there with him and he can wait. He can wait in silence and let Mickey process his own emotions. He can wait and he can let Mickey shoot out his anger and his frustration. He can wait. He can wait instead of pressuring and forcing, forcing more things that Mickey didn’t want to do and couldn’t do. He couldn’t do those things. He couldn’t be gay and he couldn’t love Ian. Not then, not in exchange for their fucking lives. But Ian could wait. He could sit on the window sill and he could fucking wait. And instead of pushing, pushing a guy who had always been pushed, instead of pushing, he could pull. He could fucking pull on his wrist when he walked past him. He could pull gently and when his gorgeous eyes laced with anger, pain, frustration landed on Ian, he could fucking tell him, he could tell him, ‘I love you’. And that could be all that fucking mattered. Loving a boy who’d never been loved. Who’d never felt love. But somehow found a way in his heart to love Ian. Even if he’d never admit it then, even if Ian wouldn’t hear those words for years, maybe never hear them, that’d be okay. Because he already knew, he already knew it back then. 

He forgot Kev was standing next to him until his giant hand clamps down hard on Ian’s shoulder, putting some pressure on to force a few steps back. Away from the flames. He moves, but the hand remains. Pulsing a comforting pressure through his sweatshirt, and waiting in silence. 

Waiting until Ian has taken a deep breath, until his hands have dropped, handed the lighter back over in exchange for his phone. Slid the phone in his pocket and whispered, “it was rape. Yev. It was Terry using Svetlana for a corrective rape. I was there. And I was too young or too dumb or both to see it for what it was.”

————

A voice he doesn’t recognize filters into his head immediately when he reenters the house. Shit, he left the door wide open, didn’t he? Fuck. Fuck, could be Mickey’s drug connection. Fuck, he rushes towards the bedroom, with he sound of blood in his ears making him half deaf, but it sounds like an old lady. An old lady drug dealer? What the fuck?

He shoves the door open the rest of the way, his eyes landing on the bed where Mickey still hasn’t moved. And beside the bed, between it and the window is a little old lady. Who the fuck is that? They don’t have a grandma, do they? She’s mumbling something in a foreign language and her hands, gnarly and arthritic, are sliding through his hair. He’s not flinching under her touch, he’s not drawing away from her. But when Ian left he was sound asleep, over-fucking-medicated and sound asleep. 

Her voice shifts to a steady, demanding question while her eyes rise, landing on Ian’s face, “why was I not told Mikhailo was home?”

“I,” he stutters, unsure of who this woman is, but she’s old and she looks like someone that doesn’t get messed with, “I’m sorry,” it comes out more of a question than a statement.

“Apologies,” she mummers, her hand still at work by his temple, “I don’t need apologies, I need reasons.”

“Wait, I don’t even know,” he takes a few steps closer, she has no features resembling any he’s seen on a single Milkovich, but she’s so old it’s hard to tell, “I’m sorry, I don’t even know who you are.”

She waves him off with her permanently bent hand, “where is Amanda?”

“She drove out to California to get her things. She should be on her way back.”

“And Ignatius?”

“Who?”

“Iggy,” she closes her eyes when she says it, as though a nickname is the utmost disrespect.

“He’s with Mandy. And I don’t know about Colin.”

Her free hand lands on Mickey’s shoulder, “and why did no one tell me Mikhailo was home?”

“I don’t even, it’s, um, I didn’t even tell Mandy yet.”

She makes an old lady noise, one of those tsk tsk types of things, her eyes landing on Mickey’s face as her fingers stroke through his hair. She taps his cheek gently, getting slowly to her feet and shuffling out the door. Ian follows, watches as she removes a tea pot from a bag she must have brought in with her. As she busies herself in the kitchen he finds himself watching the bedroom door, wishing for Mickey to appear, with high brows and a smirk on his face. 

“Fuck,” hearing his own voice, still sounding so far away in his ears. A quick checklist in his mind. Meds. The meds were right, he ate when he was supposed to. He’s hydrated. Everything is right. Everything is okay. Everything is normal. Everything is stable. 

He drops to his knees, feeling along the threshold of the carpet. It’ll come up easy. Shit, it’s already loose. 

“What are these?” her head tilted towards the plethora of prescriptions on the counter.

“Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, antibiotics,” he shrugs.

“Mikhailo’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Which ones are which?”

Ian gets back to his feet, taking the steps over to the counter, sorting the pill bottles. She raises the anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds to read the labels, close to her face as she scoffs, turning with both bottles in her hands and heading towards the bathroom.

“Wait, hold on, what are you doing?”

The tops are off, and she’s aimed towards the toilet. His hand comes down on hers before she can dump them. Though it’s something he’s imagined doing multiple times. With his own. With Mick’s. Fuck. The old lady’s eyes are locked onto his, expression confident on her wrinkled face, “Mikhailo has a mind that is never quiet. This,” shaking the bottles, “is quiet. This makes loud things quiet. Mikhailo does not need quiet.”

“But he’s…”

Her expression shuts him up. Fuck, she’s right. She’s right. He was never silent, he was never quiet, he was always thinking, always ticking through his next move, his next con, his next meal, his next option. He was always on his toes, always on guard. It started in prison. It would have started in prison where he was stifled. And all that happened, everything that happened behind bars, it was so loud he numbed it when he got out. He numbed it enough to attempt suicide. 

And now? Now, since then, with the aid of the mood stabilizers, the quick acting anti-anxiety meds, the anti-depressants that haven’t even taken full effect yet. Under those, he’s been silent and unmoving. 

Shit. He releases her hand. And he watches as she dumps the pills into the toilet. He watches as she flushes them down. And he feels relief. He feels like she just did the one thing he knew was right, the only thing he knew was right and he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t because it was too much like flushing his own pills. And maybe if he’d flushed Mick’s he would have flushed his own. And then what? Spiraled again? 

He’s on a balanced schedule, balanced routine. And it’s been working for years now. He’s felt fine. He’s felt without over-feeling. He has felt. But he didn’t feel a damn thing until he laid eyes on Mickey again. 

————

She’s in the bedroom now, this time singing quietly in a foreign tongue. It sounds like a lullaby. Why the fuck didn’t Ian think of music? Just something gentle for background noise. 

He has half the carpet ripped out, the staples are going to take a fuck ton of time to remove, but he’s got that. 

The old lady has dinner on the stovetop and whatever it is, it smells amazing. Shit, if he knew who she was, he would have called her over as soon as he was released. 

He stops in the doorway when it’s time for a breather, watching her hands busy at work knitting. Her voice an easy, gentle hum. His eyes scan over Mick’s form and his heart leaps into his throat when he sees those fingers moving. Moving against the pillow, near his face, like he’s counting on his fingers. A pattern of one through four. And back. Is he keeping the beat of her lullaby on his fingers?

Her eyes flit over his face and she smiles. The humming uninterrupted while her gaze lingers. When she does stop humming, it’s to state simply, “Amanda will need a new scarf.”

“Yeah,” his voice is gravel crunching underfoot, “she will.”

“And you. And your brothers,” her hand extents, landing on top of his. Closing gently, tapping, returning to her work, “drink the tea.”

His head moves, a tired nod under the edge of the sheets resting over half his face.

“There is even a straw. They make silicon straws. To cut down on plastic. Plastic,” she tsks again, “the end of the world is plastic.”

The clacking of the knitting needles picks up speed and her voice carries on. Ian finds himself smiling under the dust mask while he rips out the rest of the carpet. 

————

“Borscht and pampushki,” she calls out when she leaves the bedroom. Stopping at the edge of the living room to scan over the work in progress. She sighs, hands on her hips, “Nadiya always hated that carpet,” dismissing the mess with a flick of her wrist, “eat. While it’s hot.”

She’s not going to make Mickey come to the dinner, she’s going to bring the meal to him. And the company. Two kitchen chairs and a TV tray beside the bed, the side that his back has been turned towards. It isn’t anymore. He’s sitting up. 

Fuck, relief rolls down Ian’s spine. Even though he knows this is just a start. This is just the beginning. The sitting feels like a fucking victory, but it’s not. Mickey’s limbs are still heavy and achy, his hands are going to shake for a few days. His legs will feel like Jello every time he stands, every step he takes will feel like he’s walking through a snowdrift up to his hips. 

But he’ll do it on his own. It won’t be like yesterday, taking him to the doctor. Fuck, one more stumbled step and Ian was going to throw him over his shoulder and carry him out. But that only would have hurt the incision. 

The old lady must have propped the pillows for him. Behind his bare back, the sheet tucked up to his armpits. The top few inches of the gauze visible and spotted with little dots of moisture from the antibiotic ointment. But nothing pink. 

She’s arranged a tray on his lap, one he’s having a stare-down with. His hands limp on the bed beside him, making no moves towards the food. Even though it smells incredible. Her gnarly old hand lands on the one she can reach, a tight squeeze while her other hand finds Ian’s on their tray between them. She closes her eyes and speaks with a smile on her lips. Opening them, releasing the hands and telling them both, “Eat. Or I force feed.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mickey’s hand rise. Landing on the soup spoon, but not raising it. 

Just eat, just eat. It starts as a whispering in his head, echoing around every lobe of his brain, snaking across every wrinkle and tissue and snapping through every synapse. Just eat. Just eat. Just eat. A prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. A pleading to a force of nature that he can’t understand and will never wrap his head around. A request, a silent request to the only man he’s ever wanted to worship. 

His own bowl is half empty, when he finally finds something to say, anything to say, “thank you for dinner,” to the old lady.

She responds in a different language and it makes Mickey turn his head. Towards the sound of her voice, cheek against the pillow behind him. Face still blank, voice still weak, “he don’t understand Ukrainian Ms B.”

“Wait, you do?” Ian wonders.

Those beach glass eyes land on Ian’s and his heart leaps to his throat. A dull nod. And they disappear. Behind closed lids. For long enough that Ian’s eyes shift back to the old lady, “Ms B?”

“Bodnar,” she offers, but no first name.

“Like the flower shop?”

She nods a slow nod, sipping the soup off her spoon. 

“I remember going in there with my mom when I was a kid. One time she tried to steal an arrangement, like a huge arrangement that was on that round table in the center of the store. In that giant porcelain vase. The lady that was working there, she was probably younger than my mom, but I remember thinking, you know the way little kids think when they see the prettiest person they’ve ever seen in real life, I thought she had to have been some kind of queen,” he feels his lips rise into a smile as Ms Bodnar’s do, “she didn’t call the cops or threaten Monica or anything, she just stood behind the counter and watched. Then when Monica got to the door of the shop with the vase that probably weighed almost as much as she did, she must have been manic as hell, or coked out, sometimes it was hard to tell with her; but the lady laughed. Laughed loud enough that Monica stopped in her tracks. When she stopped laughing she reached over the counter and handed me a candy bar, told me to let my mom know it was time to go home and only to come back if she wanted to share a cup of coffee. Monica, of course, freaked out, set the vase down and took off running. She, um,” he watches his fingers crease the napkin beside his empty bowl, “left me in there. But I knew my address by then and the lady locked up the shop to walk me home. Told me to go inside and lock all the doors until my parents came home. But Fiona was already home anyway,” he shrugs. Thinking now about how it felt to hold her hand on the sidewalk. It was different than Fiona, it was a mother’s hand, and it wasn’t a mother’s hand that was flitting away with mania or dead under the weight of depression.

“Nadiya,” she sighs, wiping her winkled mouth with a napkin.

“Nadiya?” 

“Mother,” her eyes flit over to Mickey’s face. Lax with sleep again. She sighs, “Nadiya was a beautiful woman. Terry was not the man she fell in love with by the time the children were born. Nadiya had a weakness for the substances. And I,” she gets to her feet, with relative ease for how old she looks, “failed her,” she removes the tray from Mickey’s lap, inspecting the bowl, “maybe one bite. Two?”

“One,” Ian confirms from what he saw, and he saw every move he made before he fell asleep again.

“Is better than none,” she sets the tray on the dresser top, leaning over the bed again to slide her hand through his silver hair, whispering something Ukrainian, tucking his sheets tight, flattening them against his chest. 

————

“So, um,” setting the china plate on the dish strainer as gently as possible. Ms Bodnar must have brought her own dishes, “how long has Mickey understood Ukrainian?”

“Little bits since he was a boy. It was Terry who insisted the children never speak a lick of it. He never did care for anything that was different. Mikhailo will never speak it, but he understands every word I say to him,” she lifts the bowl out of the strainer, wiping a drying towel along the rim of it with a tender expression in her eyes, “he was such a sweet boy. So loving,” she sighs, “I was forbidden by Terry to enter this house after Nadiya passed. And the kids were threatened, if not more, to stay away from me. He was, he is, a despicable man. But if not for him, these children, they would not exist. So for one reason, only one reason, I am grateful for his existence. May he rot in Hell,” her eyes linger on the bowl in her hand, wistful smile as she tells him, “Nadiya’s dishes. They came across the ocean with her grandmother. They are to be passed to the first child to marry. I had them in a box in my attic for safe keeping. Always so many broken dishes around here. My boy,” her hand lands on Ian’s forearm, “tomorrow when I get here, you will go to my house and get the rest of her things. Bring them here. They belong here with her children.”

————

Ian wakes in the middle of the night with his skin lit afire, tiny sparks crawling every surface of his flesh. Tingles in his fingertips, fingertips that are pressed gently against something soft, satiny, warm. His eyes open slowly, knowing this feeling, this feeling he hasn’t felt in half a lifetime. But he could live a thousand lives and he’d always recognize this feeling. 

This feeling of his entire universe against his fingertips. This feeling of his life being full and complete. This feeling of security and comfort that he’s never felt elsewhere. And this, under his fingers, the electricity pulsing through his every nerve. It’s Mickey. It’s the feel of Mickey. 

And Mickey, fuck, he is lying on his side facing Ian. His eyes are still closed but he is turned towards Ian. His hand is on the sheet between them and Ian’s fingers are resting on his knuckles. And he knows, Ian knows that Mickey can feel that. He can feel his fingers against his knuckles even through sleep, he knows they’re there and he hasn’t withdrawn from the touch. 

Fuck, his exhale shudders and he watches Mickey’s eyes flit beneath his lids. His heart flutters into the back of his throat and he slides a finger over his rough knuckle. Watching his eyes flash open, for just a split second. Knowing any bit of movement, any tiny instance of movement would elicit eyes open. And eyes open, that response, that fight or flight, that self-preservation, that survival instinct; it’s starting to come back to the surface. Mickey is starting to come back to the surface. 

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper, but the truth has never been anything less than a shout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I let Mickey burn the couch a few times. This time it felt like a piece of their past that lingered and I wanted it to linger while Ian had some time to think through his memories of events on that couch, as an adult. And then decide it was time to burn the past. 
> 
> So he's got Svet's number, will he contact her? Will he wait until Mickey is healing?
> 
> Oh lord, his eyes are open and his voice is coming out. I think we can start to breathe a little. 
> 
> And Ms Bodnar, I know I've created OC's that you guys have mixed feelings about, but I think Ms Bodnar will never have any reason to elicit any response other than a sigh of relief :)
> 
> One of the things about Mickey understanding Ukrainian through Ms B and his childhood with his mother - we saw him yelling about not understanding Russian and seemingly irritated that it's being spoken in his house in canon - sort of an echo of something Terry would have crushed into them. If you speak English then speak English always, and if you don't speak English then you shouldn't be here - type of attitude.
> 
> Iggy doesn't seem like an Ignatius, but it was all google could do for me in this case.


	19. Get Out

Get Out

 

“What the fuck is this?” Mandy tosses her bag towards the couch, but it lands on bare wooden floor, sanded down and unfinished.

“Progress,” Ian’s head rises from where he’s hands and knees on the kitchen end of the living room, he shrugs. The shrug that winds up to his ears.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Iggy leans against the doorframe, letting Luna off leash as she sniffs her way across the room, jutting her nose into Ian’s outstretched hand. 

He willingly scratches at her ears until she gets bored of his scent and carries on, “you have a dog?”

“No, stole this one,” eyes rolling, swatting Iggy with the back of her hand, “go get the rest of my shit.”

“Fuck’s Mickey?” he wonders, reaching for a cig.

Ian’s head tilts towards the bedroom that Luna just disappeared into, “hasn’t moved much. How was the drive?”

“Miss California already, sunshine and the smell of salty ocean air year round,” they’ve both started towards the bedroom. Apparently neither one of them is going for the rest of her shit yet. She stops in her tracks in the doorway, but Iggy enters like nothing is amiss.

Mickey’s rolled up in his side facing away from the door, fucking fuck he’s so skinny. He’s nothing more than bones and scarred skin, and the scars, fuck. Her breath trembles, forcing the burning of tears back while she watches Iggy stalking over to the chair between Mickey’s bed and the window. Luna has sniffed out her target, but she’s waiting for the go ahead to jump. When her brown eyes find Mandy for the nod, she gives it. Watching as Luna climbs up gently on the foot of the bed, sniffing her way up Mickey’s legs, settling herself in a ball against his back and resting her chin on his shoulder, “good girl,” she hears herself whisper. 

“Man, you wouldn’t believe the fancy fuckin’ place Mandy was living in, couple blocks from the ocean,” now that Iggy’s mouth is moving, it’s not going to stop. Even if Mickey’s eyes are closed. He doesn’t care. Once the worst of the withdrawals were sweat, puked, and shivered out of his system; it’s like he forgot how to shut the fuck up. 

“So,” she heads straight to the fridge for a beer, opening it before she remembers all the substances under this roof are a no-go, “this leftover chicken kiev?”

“Uh huh,” Ian is at least standing now, trying to keep his face free of emotion, but it’s not working.

“Shit,” regret starting to form in her mind, “shit Ian, I didn’t call her. I should have called her. Ms Bodnar, did you?”

“She showed up, made herself comfortable,” his smile is easy but his eyes are showing the strain of worry, “she’s the only person Mickey’s spoken to,” it’s quiet, aimed more towards Mandy’s neck than her face, “she had shuffle board at the senior center today, but she’ll be back by dinner time.”

“Is she knitting me a scarf yet?” the fridge closes without the leftovers being removed. Being back in this house, back in this house with an unmoving human in a bed, door open, just in case, just in case. Her hand rises, combing through her hair.

“I think you have two.”

“Good. I’ll need them.”

His smile is sad, this whole house is sad. It’s why Mandy left in the first fucking place. Fuck, she spins around, pulling the fridge open again, wishing some beer would magically appear in it. Biting down on her lower lip, trying like hell to keep it all in. All the images of her life here, all the images she ran from, all the images she tried like fuck to forget. 

“Fuck,” the first one is a whisper, “fuck,” louder this time, “fuck!” 

Fists clenched, forehead leaned against the freezer door. 

‘I can take care of him.’

It’s screaming through her mind as a set of long arms wrap around her from behind. Gently spinning her to face him. She burrows immediately into his chest.

‘Let me take care of him.’

“I fucking hate this.”

“I know.”

————

“He ain’t gonna like that,” Iggy warns.

“Fuck if I care,” sliding into the bed behind him, scooting towards his bony frame until she can wrap her arms around him, bury her face in the back of his head. Luna groans between them where Mandy has crowded her space, “oh get over it,” she scoffs towards the ball of warmth and love. 

He smells like a combination of human musk, clean sheets, hospital, and sickness. It’s different, different than the days she’d find herself climbing into the sheets with him, escaping the monster that clawed at her thighs and whispered threats against her neck. Back then, he’d build her a fort sometimes in his closet. Mostly just to get her out of his bed, but it was safe, she was safe under the blanket and pillow fortress he’d create for her. Nothing could find her there. Nothing could see her there. Nothing could touch her there.

And she’d sleep to the sound of his breathing, she’d wake to his mumbled threats and defensive grumbles. She’d listen as he re-situated and fell back into silent sleep. A silent sleep that would be interrupted by drunken stumbling just on the other side of the door. Sometimes the door would be flung open. She’d hear him being dragged out of bed for whatever Terry deemed Mickey guilty of that night, or for a drinking partner, or maybe because he couldn’t find the first kid he was looking for so he came in here instead. 

She watches her hand on his shoulder, fingers spreading wide but unable to cover the full scar there, “what the hell happened to you?” she hears herself whisper, a sigh against his neck. 

A stifled gasp the only response.

————

The never truly darkness of a Chicago night. The never truly silence of a Chicago night. Filtering in through the space between the heavy curtains, and the single paned glass of the closed window. 

It’s hard to believe he’s alive. The breathing shallow. The movement minimal. Her hand still on his shoulder. Pointer finger tracing the skin-deep ditch in his flesh. Dipping into the silky expanse of a scar and rising back out to the smoothness of his surface that used to be faded with scattered freckles. There’s a light sheen of sweat. And his breathing is picking up pace. 

“Mick,” she whispers it, “Mickey,” gently.

But he bolts. Wrestling the blankets that Ian and Ms Bodnar keep tucking up tight around him and under him. Yanking and shoving and tumbling out of bed. Off the side towards the window and into a heap on the floor. Crashing against the side table, the contents of it shaking and clattering to the floor and spilling on his body. 

The light from the kitchen breaks into the bedroom as the door is opening in a hurry. Ian’s hustle across the room, dropping to his knees in the mess beside the bed. Where Mickey has drawn his knees to his chest, tucked his face between them, and wrapped his arms around himself, hands protecting the back of his head. 

Ian’s hands are stalled in the space between them, his brows furled, voice steady, “Mick, you are home. You are with us. Ian and Mandy,” he doesn’t respond, doesn’t flinch, “you are at home Mick,” Luna has lowered herself off the bed, landing herself between the two men and jutting her nose into Mickey’s arm, “um and Luna is here,” Ian narrates.

Part of her wants to laugh, tell Ian he sounds like an idiot, shake Mickey until he sees where he is and he gets himself out of his self-embrace and defensive positioning. But, fuck, it doesn’t work that way. 

“Mick,” she hears herself whisper, “sorry if I woke you, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Luna has nudged and nuzzled her way into the space between his arm and his head. Her wet nose is probably right against his cheek by now. That, or she’s finding the crumbs that have been deposited in his cocoon by the plate that clattered to the floor next to him. He ate. Sort of. Like maybe three bites of Ms Bodnar’s fresh cheese bread, and he drank her tea. Ian keeps gently reminding him that if he won’t stay hydrated and somewhat nourished, they’ll check him back in, put in an IV, all that song and dance. 

“Mickey…”

“Get out! Get the fuck out! Both of you!” it’s all choked off in his throat and his face remains hidden. 

Ian sighs heavily, leaning back on his butt, “okay. We can do that.”

Slinking out like reprimanded puppies, leaving Luna behind, and the door open. 

“Fuck,” Ian sighs, perching on a barstool at the counter, where the fuck they came from Mandy can only guess. His elbows meet the table, hands washing across his face and back through his hair, “fuck,” getting to his feet to pace the kitchen. 

“Ian. Not your fault,” finding herself opening the fridge again. No beer has magically appeared yet, “this was, this was no one’s fault. Not yours, not mine, not Iggy’s, and not Mickey’s.”

Though she’s pissed Ian didn’t call her, let her know he was discharged. But he was probably right, she would have rushed, upped her chances of driving tired, but fuck; she should have been here. She should have been here. And Iggy should have warned her, he should have told her, that he was using. He should have called her, and told her that he was fucked up, that fucked up shit happened and he was lost. Mickey. He should have fucking called her when he got out. He should have let her know, he needed some fucking help adjusting. Fuck. 

“I know,” he finally responds, “but it feels…”

“It’s not,” she interrupts, grabbing his arm when he walks past her, waiting for his eyes to find hers and hold, “it’s not.”

Jaw set in a stubborn line, eyes lit with that willful look he used to wear back in the day.

“Ian,” her free hand rises, finding his other arm and squeezing them both tightly, “this is not your fault. Okay? Not from the fucking start.”

“Yeah well Sammi…”

“Fuck Sammi. Fuck her. Fuck the system. Fuck our fucked childhood. Fuck your fucked childhood. Fuck Mickey’s temper. His groomed temper and hotheadedness. Fuck all that shit. Fuck the public attorney. Fuck the prison system. Fuck bipolar. Fuck all the fucking circumstances that led us here. Fuck them all. The only thing that matters, right now, and moving forward, is that we do it right this time. For all of us.”

Expression starting to calm, fire in his eyes starting to dim, tension draining slowly from his taut forearms under his fingertips, “fuck. Okay,” sighing, his eyes remaining on hers. 

“I don’t want to hear any ‘I fucked up’ shit anymore, okay? We’ve all fucked up. We’re just a boiling pot of fucked-up Southside shit. But we don’t have to be. We don’t have to keep fucking up, right? You got your shit together, got a good job, you’ve kept your head on straight. Don’t change that. I’ll find something. It won’t take long, flash a wink in the right direction, maybe show some leg,” she smirks, knowing it’ll loosen him up a little, “and I’ll get something to tide me over until I figure out what I actually want to do with my life,” she shrugs, “and Mickey? Mickey is moment to moment right now, fuck, I’m relieved he just fucking yelled at us. I’m so fucking relieved he just yelled at us. That’s Mickey. That’s the Mickey I know,” she smiles when he does, “but I also know that he’s not the same Mickey he used to be,” keeping her voice low, “Iggy refused to tell me anything, but I’d be blind…” her voice trails off, clearing her throat, “he’s got a lot of healing to do. Physically, emotionally, mentally. And that is what we are here for. Right?”

He nods, his hands have turned, grasping at her arms.

“Okay,” a deep breath that only sort of helps to calm her nerves as she watches her old friend. He looks healthy, according to Debbie he’s been stable for a long time, but all it could take is one stressor. And fuck, Mickey is one giant stressor. 

“Where the hell have you been sleeping?” she wonders suddenly. There’s no couch. Her bed was made neatly, fresh clean sheets. So was Iggy’s. The other bedrooms still loaded with boxes of shit belonging to whatever family member is currently incarcerated.

His head tilts towards the bedroom. And she knew that, she knew that already. 

Her voice is barely a whisper, “you’re still in love with him?” even though she knows.

“Yeah,” tears spring to his eyes but he blinks them back.

She does the same, forcing her lip not to tremble, “good,” admitting, “he needs that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The support system keeps getting thicker. A few more emotions starting to bubble up. 
> 
> A dog. What can I say about adding a dog? My equation for happiness - a dog, an old lady, a little kid, and someone who is willing to walk through Hell with you. What else could Mickey need? So where do we get a kid and when? And is Ian going to make it through Hell with Mickey and still be able to keep himself stable?


	20. Feeling

Feeling

 

“The fuck we doin’ here Gallagher,” Ian sighs, leaning back on the cold park bench, watching the waves tossing chunks of ice against the cement, “well, Mickey. We are feeling. We are sitting here, feeling.”

Nothing. Not even a snort of annoyance.

“The fuck we feelin’ firecrotch?” turning his head to see if any expression has crept in yet, “okay Mickey, we’re feeling everything. Anything. All the small things. Everything unimportant and all the things we take for granted. Like for one…”

“Cold,” it’s barely audible over the frozen lake and the howling wind lifting swirls of powdered snow around their ankles.

“Cold. Exactly. Exactly that.”

He falls back into silence. His pale cheeks flushed pink with the nip of the wind. Ian reaches over, tugging his winter hat down over his ears that have turned red. Fuck, he’s so thin. He’s way too fucking thin. 

“The fuck we sittin’ here feelin’ cold for? You may ask,” his hand lingers beside his head, wanting so badly to touch, so badly to land on the inch of skin between his hat and his coat collar, “it’s more than that.”

Ian watches the breath exit his lips, a fine frozen mist in the winter’s air. 

“The fuck more is there Gallagher? Cold is fuckin’ cold. We’ve felt it, now let’s fuckin’ go,” he sighs, unable to stifle the smirk that rises for a split second as he watches Mickey’s lips purse. And chatter. He reaches over, pulling the tab of the zipper all the way to the top of his jacket, under his chin. Adam’s Apple bobbing as Ian breathes gently, letting it snake slowly through the air and flow across Mickey’s skin. He’s so close, he’s so fucking close and Ian could just reach out. The hand that’s lingering under his chin, he could just slide his thumb over his lips, he could lean his forehead against his temple and he could stay there. He could live there, he could slide under Mickey’s flesh and make the weak points strong, he could brace his flesh beneath those scars, become the shield that guards his perfect heart. 

“Okay then. I’ll tell you what I feel,” watching his hand drop, landing on his own lap, grasping his other. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath with the scent of Mickey swirling though his mind, “I feel the cold. I feel it on the wind. I feel it on my bare skin. The skin on my cheeks, my nose, my lips. My snot is frozen. My eyes are stinging every time the wind blows. I feel it through my jeans. I feel it through my gloves. I feel it on my neck and it’s making me shiver. Every shiver starts at the base of my spine. It spreads upwards and outwards and my body shakes. I see it leave from my mouth. The hot air from my breath is a puff of frozen crystals in the clear air in front of me. When the crystalized air rises, it fogs the image of the lake. The lake that I see. I see ice chunks, white caps. I see blue water and it looks cold. It looks so cold. When the winds gusts it sends droplets of the water hurling through the air and I feel it on my face. I smell it. It smells…”

“Like dead fish.”

“Exactly like dead fish,” he keeps his eyes closed. And forces himself not to smile, “I can smell the snow. It’s crisp, refreshing.”

“If you can smell it past your frozen snot.”

“And something fried. Some kind of restaurant food,” this time his eyes open. Feeling Mickey’s gaze on the side of his face until he turns. Then Mickey looks away, “and I feel hungry.”

Silence. His jaw set in a taut line. The frozen air exiting his nostrils.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ hungry,” Ian answers for him, “too bad,” dipping his shoulder and nudging gently against Mickey’s, “I won’t make you get out. I won’t make you go inside any kind of eatery. I won’t even make you eat anything. But I’m going to Panera. And I’m getting something healthy, something that’ll settle well in a stomach that hasn’t been full in a long ass time. So just in case that stomach gets rumbly,” he nudges him again gently, “you’re a fuckin’ pussy Gallagher. Fuckin’ Panera, you gonna start wearin’ skinny jeans and a man bun?” 

This time he doesn’t stop it, he doesn’t resist that magnetic pull, that one that guides his lips to Mickey’s temple, and forces them to linger there. 

————

He parks the car near the Southshore docks, leaving the ignition running, heat on, vents aimed at a shivering Mickey. The music quiet.

Sandwich on the center console, hoping the smell of bread or maybe even the smoothie with entice Mickey to make fun of him. Or steal a bite. Or anything. 

“We used to come down here, me and Lip, watch the ships. Throw rocks. It’s the first taste either of us had of beer. Stole one of Frank’s, came down here and passed it back and forth. I hated it. It tasted so fucking horrible. But I drank it anyway, didn’t want to embarrass my older brother or look like a pussy,” he smiles towards the old industry surrounding them, thinking there are probably plenty of bodies either buried or weighed down and dumped here courtesy of the Milkovich family. 

Fuck, Mickey already knew that, didn’t he? He knew that story. Remembering now the time they came down here, some drug deal back when Mickey was still pushing product for Terry. He made Ian wait outside the fence when he climbed over, told him he had no fuckin’ business knowin’ Mickey’s business. Mickey’s way of saying he didn’t want to involve Ian in illegal activity but the only way they’d ever go on a date was shit like this. Making the deal, then going for a walk, watching the late night activities on the docks. Sitting in the shadows, sharing a cig and six-pack. 

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t reached for the food. 

Ian sighs, leaning his head back against the headrest, turning his head to watch Mickey, “fuck Gallagher, could you get more queer? A fuckin’ pink smoothie?”

Nothing. 

“Alright, let’s…”

“That’s where he buried her.”

“Hmm?”

Eyes are locked onto an open patch of dirt under the protection of raised rails, swept barren by the wind, “Mom.”

Shit, those times they ended up down here. Instead of the dugout, instead of the abandoned buildings, the times they ended up down here when there weren’t drugs to be sold or guns to be bought. Those times they’d just sit. And watch. And smoke. And drink. Usually when they were slinking off into the night it was to fuck, but never here. Never here. 

All those times, he was taking Ian to sit with his mom. And he never said a fucking word. 

A tear looses itself from the corner of his eye, leaving a glistening trail down his pink cheeks spotted with stubble. Ian doesn’t reach for it. He lets it slide. Gracefully, it traces his cheek and lands in the corner of his lips. His perfect lips. All the times Ian felt those lips on his body, on his own lips, and he never appreciated them the way he should have. 

He leaves the tear there. And so does Mickey. 

————

“Holy shit, Mandy, this looks incredible,” and it does. They finished the floor together yesterday, but he wasn’t expecting her to have the room fully furnished already. The painting was done by Iggy, they discovered he has a strange attention to detail but also the obvious Milkovich lack of patience that can make a project like that go smoothly. All his lines were perfect, but he slapped that paint on so quickly there was no room for anyone to help him, “it looks like a completely different room.”

“Yeah it does,” she smiles, lounged back on the sofa, “bargain buy. And it’s actually comfortable. Seems well-made,” she shrugs. Her eyes are shifting back and forth between Ian and Mickey. Ian just happens to bend over to untie his boots at exactly the moment Mickey is kicking his off, just so happens to know that Mickey won’t take a hand that’s offered, but a bent body, a lower back that makes a great place to lay a hand for support while he picks one foot up; that, he’ll do, “there’s also a recliner at the Habitat Restore, it looks okay, but I thought we’d hold out for a minute. Maybe rip up the linoleum? Leave the open space for now for the table. What do you think? Hardwood or subfloor?”

When Mickey’s hand gets hung up in his jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders, Ian takes it by the sleeve to tug it off, “I ain’t a fuckin’ kid,” he grumbles, jerking his arm away.

Ian’s hand recoils immediately and he refuses to let himself take it personally. He knows this. He knows this feeling. He has been there. Being doted on and treated like a baby for who knows how long, because he needed to be. Mickey needed to treat him like a baby, a full grown baby who couldn’t feed himself, clean himself, or dress himself. And he knows this stage. This part where life is starting to come back to the surface. Where the mind is starting to fight with the body that’s gotten weak after weeks in bed, after weeks of malnourishment. 

But this place, this place is a step forward. 

“Where’s Iggy?”

“He is applying for jobs. And I have an interview tomorrow at the bank.”

“The bank?”

“Yeah,” she smirks a little, “hey, I don’t have a record, and I got my GED. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to be a teller. You just have to smile at people and deal with people too stupid to balance their check books,” she says it all without letting the death glare filter in.

Her eyes don’t rise to follow Mickey across the room until his back is disappearing around the corner to the bathroom. Luna hot on his trail. But she gets shoved out the door before it closes with a resounding thud.

“It’ll probably suck if I actually get hired,” she sighs, now losing her posturing, allowing her head to fall in defeat. Knowing what Ian had planned, get Mickey out for some fresh air, plant the idea that it’s okay to feel, it’s okay to feel whatever the fuck he wants, but to feel it slowly. Mandy was hoping for a breakthrough. Ian knew it would most likely be like this, “but any paycheck is better than no paycheck.”

He nods his agreement, sliding out of his jacket finally and hanging it on the hook next to Mickey’s. Readjusting Mickey’s coat and hat, straightening them out so they’ll warm up more quickly, dry out in over the blast of the furnace when it kicks on. 

“And Ms. Bodnar?”

“That little old bat has a busy social life,” now she’s smiling her real smile, “but I’m sure she’ll be back before dinner. Come on, sit on my fancy couch.”

“I’m getting there,” he’s stuck half in the entryway, half in the living room. Watching the bathroom door, pretending to be discreet. Luna has sat down right outside the door, on her haunches, waiting. 

Something feels not right. The bathroom. Ian’s certain he hasn’t eaten enough to shit. He hasn’t had much to drink today, and if he was leaving a piss, he’d be out already. 

Shit, maybe he was wrong. Maybe it isn’t time to feel yet. Maybe he should have let him stay in bed. He should have let him lay there for one more day, what’s one more day when it’s already been a week? But he knows he’s supposed to be keeping him moving, keeping his body moving to avoid blood clots. Tomorrow he’ll have to drag him to the doctor again, the staples should go this time. 

He finally takes the steps inside. Walking past Mandy, not stopping until he’s right outside the bathroom door. As though he’d be able to hear it if Mickey was slitting his wrists with some blade that Ian missed when he cleaned out the house. With both current residents on parole, they’d already cut down significantly on their weapon supply, but Ian found plenty, no guns so they're either hidden really fucking well or they were smart enough to get rid of them before a random visit from a PO. Aside from the kitchen knives, every other blade and random weapon is locked up in safe in Terry’s old bedroom. The safe that Ian changed the combo to and hasn’t told anyone what it is. He’ll get an ass-chewing for that eventually, whether it ends up being from Iggy or Mickey, he’s prepared for it. 

The turn of the faucet, the clunking of the pipes, the groan of the nozzle and finally the spray of water in the shower. He takes a deep breath, thinking maybe he’s at the point of showering himself. Maybe he’s strong enough to stand in the spray alone and he’s tired of being babied. Maybe that’s a start.

But when Ian blinks, the image of his hand on the burner at Patsy’s flashes through his mind and his hand jolts out to the door handle. Fucker, it’s locked, “Mick open the door,” slamming his free hand down on the wood, “Mickey, open the door!”

“What’s going on Ian?” her voice is concerned, barely filtering into his consciousness as his hand keeps unsuccessfully working on the knob.

“Mickey, open the door!” his heart has leapt to his throat, a layer of sweat rising on his palms and beading along his lower back.

“Ian, what the hell? It’s just a shower, he’s just…”

“It’s locked Mandy. Since when does Mickey lock the bathroom door? Since when does he even close it?” mouth dry, voice broken and choked off.

“Shit,” she backs away quickly, disappearing for what feels like hours but is only maybe a second before she’s back and picking the lock. 

Shoving the door open, his hand on Mandy’s chest to push her back, a silent order to stay in the doorway, to not see this, to not witness this. Ian’s seen it, he’s seen Mickey dead already, he’s seen it. He can handle it, he’s seen plenty of dead people. Dying people. He’s seen it. He can, he can do this. His hand darts out from his side, ripping open the shower curtain, releasing steam so thick he can’t find Mickey’s form until some of it swirls out the open door.

He’s sitting on the floor of the tub, the water so hot it’s leaving red angry marks on his pale flesh. Ian’s hand is shaking when he watches it out of his peripheral turning the hot down and the cold up. Mickey’s face is in his hands, the water splashing on his shoulder blades but his whole body is pink with burns. Fuck, all it takes a handful of seconds for third-degree burns from hot water, the fucking old ass water heater in this house has probably always been set on high. Fuck. 

His body moves on auto-pilot when he hears a gasp escape Mickey’s lips, muffled into his hands and stifled by the sound of the water. His body moves. It moves over the ledge of the tub, into the spray of the water. He’s seated behind Mickey before the water even soaks through his clothing, and his arms are wrapping themselves around him. Around his body and around his legs that are hugged against his chest now. Ian’s cheek is finding the base of his skull and resting there, his voice is finding words and he’s not sure what those words are. But he can hear it like a distant chant echoing throughout his body. His legs are closed tight around Mickey’s hips and his hands are curled around his wrists. Holding so fucking tight he’s certain it’s making it hard to breathe but he can’t tell, he can’t tell by the sound of the water and the sound of his voice and the sound of Mickey’s gasps and choked cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the really hard things about pushing your way through depression is finding a way to feel again and a lot of times introducing yourself to feeling again can be the worst part of the whole process because you want to feel, but the only way to actually feel is to make it hurt sometimes. Physical pain is a receptor that your brain should always be able to feel so making the emotional pain physical and having the control over it in a way that you have no control over the emotions, it's almost like putting it in a box and gift wrapping it to yourself. If that makes any sense at all. And there are always setbacks in the healing process, aren't there?
> 
> But Ian remembers Mickey's voice, it's loud and clear in his mind, so if he can get it to break through the barriers of Mickey's mind, then we'll get there faster.


	21. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MEMORIES OF RAPE, ABUSE, AND VIOLENCE

I’m Here

 

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” it’s crashing against his neck and snaking around in his head. It’s whispering against his flesh and trailing through his hair. It’s exiting Ian’s lips and forming a smoke ring around them both. It’s falling down around him like the water spilling from the shower head. 

“I’m here,” it’s still there when the water is turned off. When Ian’s soaked jeans are no longer against Mickey’s bare legs. When his wet flannel is no longer against his bare back, “I’m here,” it’s still curling around Mickey’s ear when a warm towel is draped over his shoulders and Ian’s hands are gently mopping the water off his skin, “I’m here,” it’s still there when the sound of Ian undressing and his wet clothes landing in a heap behind Mickey in the tub long after the water has swirled down the drain. 

“I’m here,” it’s still there when a second towel is added to the first one, this time around his chest, when Ian’s hands are patting the cotton tenderly against the incision mark, “I’m here,” it’s still there when he’s being guided to his feet and Ian’s hands are sliding a third towel up and down his legs like he’ll shatter to nothing more than a porcelain vase after it’s thrown, breaking against the wall and falling to sharp and dangerous pieces on the floor. 

“I’m here,” it’s still there when he can see Ian’s face, and he can see that his lips aren’t moving. It’s still there when he’s being guided back to his bed. And he’s being tucked in. Freshly washed sheets on his bare skin. 

“I'm here,” it’s still there when his cheek meets the pillow and his eyes find the wall. It’s still there when lips meet his temple and a whisper, “I’m here,” is all that finds his ears. 

————

“I’m here,” the whisper against his spine, combing through his hair, snarling in his mouth and winding through his guts as the cell door clangs shut for the night. It’s still there when the rough, dirty hands find his scratchy blanket and tear it off his body. It’s still there when his prison issued boxers are being tugged down to his ankles and his breath, putrid and sour is leaving moist promises of death against his skin. When his sharp teeth are making the first contact with his shoulder and the first drop of blood is echoing those promises of death. 

Death. When he closes his eyes and lays still. Death. When he feels the blood, hot and sticky. Death. When he feels the pain jolting through his body from the inside out. Death. 

Death. It would be a relief.

It is the promise of the sun one afternoon in the yard. It is the promise that the sun makes when it reaches out and caresses his cheek in a way no human ever has. Death. It is the promise the wind makes as it blows gently through his sweat slicked hair. The way no human ever has. Death. It is the promise the crow makes as it caws overhead.

One for sorrow. 

Always. One for sorrow. 

The promise the crow makes as he tilts his head and watches. Wings so black they appear blue in the glint of the sun. Spread wide and soaring in the lazy summer sky.

Death. It promises as it swoops down to the ground outside the iron and barbed wire. As it stands in the green grass and expels the sadness of it’s lonesome song into the world. Death. It promises as it’s round black eye lands on Mickey and it tilts it’s head skyward, cackling. 

Cackling that death, death can only be yours if you choose it. And death. Death, it what’s right here if you want it. Living, living is the pain in your bones and the breaking of your soul. Living is the shattering of your sanity and the vanquishing of your will. Living is the desperation to stay afloat when you want so badly to sink. Living is the death of you. 

————

When he wakes with the water filling his mouth and lungs, burning his nostrils and pushing on his chest. When he wakes with the water cresting the rocks, falling haphazardly and breaking against the pool below. When he wakes with the feeling in his head, with the promise on his lips, with the crow on his chest. When he wakes with his eyes wide open and blurred by panic. When he wakes with his chest broken and heaving. When he wakes with his hands grasping and pulling. When he wakes with his body twisted and broken, bent and caved in. 

When he wakes. In this world that has become nothing more than the nightmare. Than the crow. Than the man with the dirty hands and the blood staining his teeth. Nothing more than the darkness of solitary and the words of his father. This world that has fallen to pain and coldness. Desolation and wind savaged Earth. 

When he wakes and it’s there, “I’m here,” and it’s here, “I’m here,” and it’s all around him, “I’m here.” 

When he wakes and it’s crashing around him and shattering within him. When it’s pooling in his chest and firing through every raw nerve. When he wakes and it’s, “I’m here,” and it’s gentle. And it’s a hand. It’s a hand that’s lingering in the space between them. The space in front of his battered chest, broken body, ransacked soul. It’s that hand that he died for. So long ago. It’s that hand floating on the top of the water, open and reaching. It’s that hand with the long fingers and pale freckles that have faded to nearly nothing. That hand with small tufts of orange hair on the back of it. With fingernails cut neatly, down to the tips. With that one hangnail on the inside of his thumb. That spot he worries at. His index finger rubbing and pressing and pulling back layer by layer until it pinches and releases one droplet of blood. Just one, only one. Only one to remind him he feels. And he bleeds. And he’s still in his skin. Just one. 

When he wakes and it’s that hand, that hand lying on the mattress between them. Palm up, and it’s that voice. That voice that has told him so many things. That voice that has lived in his mind since he was fifteen years old. That voice that admitted so shyly, ‘I miss you’ and that voice that told him so finally, ‘I don’t even know who I am anymore’. That voice that keeps saying, “I’m here.”

When he wakes and he’s slimy with sweat and his skin is alive with a million fire ants burning through every layer. When he wakes and his still beating heart is throwing itself against his ribcage with reckless abandon. When he wakes and his breath is strangled and salty fluid is blurring his vision.

When he wakes and his hand, his hand with the mutilated flesh on every finger reaches out, it lays itself on top of the one palm-up between them. That hand feels the warmth, and it feels the graceful fingers closing. And it feels the grip. And it feels the tenderness. It feels the tiny spark of electricity and the cresting wave of devotion. And it hangs on. 

It hangs on so fucking tight that it’s certain to leave a permanent imprint on his palm. A lifelong reminder of, “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian's voice is starting to find it's way through that fog.


	22. Let You Go

Let You Go

 

Ian watches the ceiling, feeling his fingers sliding in and out of Mickey’s sweaty locks. Black and grey. Grey and black. The softness of the black. The coarseness of the grey. The feeling of his breath rising goosebumps across Ian’s chest. His hand, fingers spread wide, swirled fingertips against his ribcage. Leaving his handprint, fuck, maybe that’s what Ian should have tattooed on his ribs. Carry those fingerprints in black ink on his skin in the exact place they always seem to find through sleep. 

His heart is beating a mad rhythm of love and that hummingbird is back in his stomach. Frantic and flapping. But it’s not an imbalance of the meds. It’s not mania. It’s not nerves. It’s not the raw worry of pain and blood and death. 

He leans until his lips are flush with Mickey’s head, breathing in a deep breath of his scent and letting it linger, flowing through every empty cavern of his mind and filling it back up again. 

Listening as his sleep breathing starts shifting, starts breaking into wake breathing. And he wonders suddenly, of all the times, of all the nights, of all the mornings spent in bed with Trevor; how he never memorized his patterns, how he never felt them shifting a single time, how he never listened and felt sleep starting to dissipate. But this, the pattern of this man with his head on his chest, this man who’s soul has been fused to Ian’s since the very first time they touched. This pattern, this sound, this shift he has known it since the very first morning they work up together. It’s been implanted in his memories, growing dusty but never disappearing. 

His head found Ian’s chest a few hours ago. His lower body angled away, afraid to touch, afraid to feel. But this, fuck, this. He takes another long inhale, forcing Mickey’s scent into every corridor of his soul. 

It’s the fingertips first. Pressing a dent into Ian’s ribs. It’s always the fingertips first. Then they relax as he takes a deep breath, finds his ground, recognizes the chest by heart beat or by scent or by feel of skin on skin. And he gets heavy again. 

In about ten minutes he’ll shift once more. And his cheek will re-adjust, the corner of his mouth will turn towards Ian’s skin, his lips will brush the surface, just barely. He’ll take a long breath, his hand will meet his face and rub. He’ll grunt. He’ll stretch his legs, his arm will uncoil and his hand will slide up Ian’s arm, across his chest and he’ll roll to his back for a blink, an eye-grind, another blink. And his feet will hit the floor, ready for the fight. The fight of every single day. 

Ian watches the morning light spread slow, the dull winter glow of late morning. He feels the heat pouring off Mickey’s body, just this part of his body, just his face and his arm, his hand. The parts of him that are against Ian. And his chest, his chest. Ian’s mouth tastes like metal when his eyes close and he sees it. Again. He sees it again. 

His breath trembles and catches in the back of his throat when he remembers, he remembers just how close he was to losing. Losing this man. 

Fingers in his hair, black and grey. Soft and coarse. Grey and black. Coarse and soft. 

Breath through his nose, a tear that escapes him, falls into Mickey’s hair. Glistening in the one beam of sunlight that’s split the bed in half. Ian’s hand slides into Mickey’s, removing it from his ribs and bringing it to his face, to his cheek. Pressing until his face has no choice but to turn, turn into their entwined hands and press lips. Lips to each finger, each scar, each ripped and burned and torn off remnant of flesh. His breath trembles again when he thinks about it, about how some of it had to be down to the bone. How he had to slice down to the bone to rid himself of this. Of U-UP. What used to be U-UP. And he wonders, again, he wonders and he loses the battle with another tear, he wonders of his chest. Of each letter. Of each letter. And he wonders of the bullet. And the incision. The staples and the stitches and his breath trembles again and he loses another tear. Burying his face in Mickey’s hair again. Feeling the shift, the shift in pattern. The shift to wake, but it’s different now. It’s different. It’s his fingertips against Ian’s hand where he’s trapped them. It’s his breath against Ian’s chest where he’s found him. Where he’s finally found him and he’s, “not going to let you go,” sighing into his hair, “I’m never going to let you go again.”

A gasp, blurred by the rushing in Ian’s ears and dimmed by a gasp of his own, “never Mick. I can’t bear to let you go again.”

But he has to. He knows he has to. Right now, he needs to give him some space. He needs to let him wake up alone. He needs to let him get himself out of bed. Get himself dressed. Drag himself through the mire that’s encasing his body, his weakened body. He needs to drag himself to the bathroom. Every single step the weight of a million stumbled ones. Every single step a thought, not a normal bodily function but an exhausting process. And he needs to do it alone. He needs to start and he needs to falter and he needs to stop and he needs to catch his breath by leaning against the sink. By putting those scarred hands on the sink to catch his balance and his breath. His face will rise then, his eyes will rise then and he won’t recognize the man looking back at him. He won’t understand how he got here, how it got this bad, how it got this hard. He won’t understand. His eyes will find his own reflection of blue, sunken in and fogged over like beach glass thrown against the shore over and over a thousand times until robbed of it’s clarity.  
He’ll take a deep breath. And he’ll move. He’ll move. Because he has no choice anymore. He has to move. And he has to do it by his own free will. But not without this reminder first, not without this whispered reminder against his forehead, “I love you.”

————

Snow crunching under foot, ice shattering under his heels, breath in gusts of crystallized air. Burning his lungs and forcing his muscles to move faster, work harder, burn. Burning under the will of his mind. His mind, his mind that he has the control over. He has the control. He has it, and he’s keeping it. And now, right now, his mind is in complete control of his body. Willing it to do what it doesn’t want to do. One foot in front of the other. Ice. Snow. Frozen air. The sound of the lake. The enraged lake tossing ice and rolling bone-chilling water. 

And he stops. He stops on the ledge. On the concrete ledge and he laughs. He laughs as the cold air whips the sweat off his face and grabs the spit out of his mouth, sending it hurling through Winter’s icy grip. 

He laughs. He stands on the ledge and he laughs. Until the tears rise. Until the tears rise and spill over and his knees hit the frozen ground. Face in his hands while he sobs. Wretched, hideous sobs that rack through his soul and rattle his bones. Twisting through his muscles and splitting his nerves. 

When the last one is peeled away from him he stands. He gets to his feet, he wipes his face with his gloved fingers and he moves.

————

He’s on the couch. Fully clothed. Head leaned back, face aimed towards the ceiling. 

“Morning,” Mandy’s voice is almost cheery as she cranes her neck to see him from where she’s walking out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

“Morning,” he responds, the scent of burned toast lingering in the house. 

Removing his shoes, his outermost layer and his hat. He places them strategically on the radiator. There’s a half eaten piece of burned toast on the coffee table by Mickey’s foot. Without telling it to, Ian’s arm extends, sliding his hand through Mickey’s hair on the way past, “I’m going to take a quick shower, eat something, and then we’ll head out.”

No response, he knows that. And that’s okay. 

“Ready for the big interview?”

“Hell yeah, how do I look?”

“Like a professional.”

“Professional cock-sucker,” Iggy snarks from the base of the stairs.

Mandy’s finger responds for her.

“Holy shit bro, night of the living dead or what?” as he makes his way past the couch.

“Iggy,” Mandy sighs, wanting to reprimand him but this is what Mickey needs. He needs to be treated like he’s normal. He needs to be ribbed and made fun of and poked at. He needs this to feel like home. Minus the booze, pills, and threats. It needs to feel like home. A home that is his, a home that is safe, a home where he is loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wiping sweat off my brow. Got further than I thought I would today, but the rain has interrupted my outdoor chores plan, so sorry again for bombarding you guys but getting this out there is like a now or never thing before I lose my nerve.
> 
> So we're seeing Ian now forcing himself to feel some things about this that maybe he's been stifling when he's around the others. And we've seen him pick himself back up and head home. The stress is getting to him, but he's keeping it together. He has to. 
> 
> Alright, thanks again for suffering through this with me!


	23. You Already Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I lied... one more chapter for today... 
> 
> So I've been warning the things that are outside the scope of canon, or the things I added within the rules of canon, but just intensified in my quest to break Mickey. And once those things are warned once, I will stop warning them. But yes, this chapter contains more painful memories.

You Already Know

 

It’s sleeting outside. Mickey only knows because he can see it streaking across the window. He could see it seeping into Ian’s jacket earlier. And wetting his hair, making it that deeper hue of red. 

He only knows that because he can see it. Not because he felt it earlier. Not because he felt it on his bare ears and his bare cheeks and his bare hands. 

“How the fuck am I s’posed to talk about the shit I’d rather die than remember?” he wondered when he sat in the overstuffed office chair this morning.

“Start small,” she had offered. Her eyes were soft. Her expression was open, “start with something from the past. I’d like to get to know you. I’d like to know more about you before we get into the bigger issues,” she looked honest. She looked okay. She looked okay to talk to.

But she looked, “expensive.”

“It’s not about that,” she already explained that since it was court ordered, she wasn’t bound to the same privacy practice, the same patient doctor relationship, some aspects of these conversations are also privy to his lawyer and his PO. But she didn’t explain who the fuck was paying for this shit. 

“If this is all about keeping me out of prison, then the shit you want is the shit that happened there. The shit that happened there is the reason I pulled the,” his voice choked off then. And he didn’t say another word for the rest of the hour long session. He listened while she spoke. He sort of listened. He heard her voice. It wasn't a bad voice. As far as stuffy professional voices go. 

He heard her saying things like coping mechanism. And affirmations. Healthy lifestyle choices. Surrounding himself with positive role models. 

He heard those things. And he watched the window. As the sleet trailed down the window panes. Rivulets of nearly frozen water. Tiny crystals of ice inside a sheet of water. Slipping and sliding across the clear glass. Trailing down the smooth transparent surface. And when he stood at the end of the session, when she told him it was over, when he stood, he saw a glimpse of his own face and he didn’t recognize it. 

————

“How?” he wonders, face aimed towards the window, watching the sleet coming down sporadically now, lessening and drawing back to nothing more than a light drizzle. Beyond the fluid on the car window he can see the docks. And the open Earth, the bare dirt, the permanent burial plot.

“How what?” his voice is gentle, something Mickey doesn’t deserve.

“How do I figure out who I am now?”

His sigh is heavy and he should tell Mickey to leave. Get out of the car. He doesn’t want him. He doesn’t want to be around him. Not now. Not ever. 

A warm finger reaches out, slides over Mickey’s cheek, wiping off a tear he didn’t know was falling, “you already know exactly who you are Mick.”

————

Washing his hands at the bathroom sink, Ian was clear, repeating it three fucking times, that his hands needed to be clean before he touched his chest. They needed to be clean before he rubbed the vaseline on the scar the length of his sternum, over the staple marks, over the stitches that pulled the gunshot wound closed. He was clear that Mickey’s hands needed to be clean if he was going to do the wound care himself. Suppose it’s a scar now. Scar care. Just another scar. 

His hands are shaking. They have been. Little tremors every time he moves. The shaking in his muscles. Lactic acid welcome, something he can feel. He can feel that moving through his system every single step he takes. He can feel it burning through every single underused muscle. The sinew, tendons, ligaments stiff and uncared for. His bones feel like they should be creaking like the floorboards on the stairs, the third stair is the worst. It always has been. It was always how he knew the incoming was no longer incoming, it was here and it was too late to dodge it. 

He watches his finger, the one that used to have K on it. He watches it rise, the reflection of it in the mirror. He watches it touch the very tip of the scar and his breath catches in his throat. His chest clouds and his legs tremble. His butt hits the ledge of the tub and his hands flatten against his face. 

He knows what’s coming next when the door opens. He knows Ian’s butt will be on the ledge beside his. He won’t feel it. He’ll only know it’s there because he’ll hear Ian breathing. He’ll hear him breathing for a long time before his hand slides up Mickey’s arm, across his wrist and into his hand. The tears will start soaking into the back of Ian’s hand while he leaves it there, against Mickey’s face as his fingers are slid between Mickey’s. 

He knows this. Not because he can feel it. But because this has happened. For three days now. Three days since he got the staples and stitches out. Three days since he met the shrink. Three days since they started trusting him enough to close the bathroom door. To put his own vaseline on his own scar. Or wound. Scab. He heard something about shea butter when the scab sloughs off. But shouldn’t it dry out?

“Why?” he hears himself wonder with a thick voice and trembling lips.

“The tears are normal Mick. It’s okay.”

“Why are you helping me?”

All three hands that are soaked with tears are removed from his face, his face is steered into Ian’s chest. Ian’s lips are on his head. He can barely feel it, he can barely feel anything if at all. But his breath is warm in his hair. In through his nose. Out softly through his lips. Three times. Three, Ian always does things in patterns of three. 

“Sickness, health,” it’s so quiet he can barely hear it, “all that shit.”

————

They’re on the wrong side of the bed. If there ever was a right side of the bed. For them. For Mickey there was. There was always a proper side of the bed. It was the side closest to the door. To whatever door there was. In every bed he’s ever slept in.

But it’s wrong now. It’s all wrong. The entire thing is wrong. Ian is on his back. One arm strewn over his head, the other resting beside him. Between them. His fingers bent, tips towards the mattress. Sheet bunched under them. 

The moonlight of early Spring has found it’s way through the curtains. The moonlight and manmade lights of the city night. They mingle together through the spread in the curtains and they’re resting on Ian’s hand on the mattress. On the bed. Between them.  
Ian is on the side closer to the door. And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. 

How? All Mickey can keep wondering is how? How did it get this bad? How did it go so far? Before. Before all this. When it was wrong but it was still right. It was still right for him to do the things he did to keep Ian sane. To keep him safe. To keep him alive.  
But it was all wrong. They were kids. They were kids. With a wife and a baby and unmedicated bipolar disorder. They were kids. And it was wrong.

And then during. During. Behind bars and against fists and infected ink and burned skin and ripped skin and shredded skin and shredded will and shattered choice and broken everything. Everything was broken. And somehow. Somehow at the very lowest point it was Terry. Terry who had always tried his damndest to break him. He tried so hard to break him and he never fucking could. But behind bars when Mickey was finally truly broken, it was Terry. It was Terry who interrupted the shattering. 

During. Outside. Freedom. The freedom of forced life. Of job, residence, piss tests, random house visits. No firearms, no drinking, enforced curfew. All of that freedom. Pinching pennies and scraping scraps to survive on. All of that freedom. All of that freedom when all of that shit from lock-up slithers up your spine and slides down your throat and blinds your vision when you least expect it. And you end up with a needle in your arm. And powder up your nose. And a crack pipe. And a bottle. And you know. You know it’s been awhile since you had a random visit and you know you have a scheduled visit. But you can’t stop it. You can’t stop it. Because you are drowning. You have been slowly drowning since the day you were born. And you can’t deny it any longer. 

So maybe one day. During. During all that. Maybe you sit on the couch with the memory of his face. A lone trickle of blood. It’s blurry. It was all blurry. But it was so clear. Every single part of it was so clear. And you were broken. Back then. You were broken then. And you glued yourself together with shitty school glue and taped down old fuzzy pieces of scotch tape haphazardly over all those broken parts and you kept moving. And you kept fucking up. And you kept going back for more. And it was still blurry and you never stopped being broken, did you?

So maybe one day. During. Maybe during all that. Maybe with all that running circles in your head and every image in your mind. And they were all pasted and taped and still broken. Maybe during. During that. Maybe that was when, that was when you decided enough was enough. And those pieces, those pieces would never be whole again. And that paste and that tape and those scars. They could never contain those wounds. Not now. Not then. Not ever. 

And maybe during. During that. Those broken images and those broken parts bleeding to death on the floor. On the floor where all those images became whole and became sharp and became clear and became too fucking broken to stand. Maybe on that floor where your father’s voice boomed through your head. And your mother’s voice whispered around your ears. And your sister’s voice twisted through your guts. And your brothers’ voices echoed off the peeling drywall. Maybe during. During all that. You heard something else. Maybe you heard him. You heard the one voice. The only voice. That somehow could reach through all those broken pieces and talk over all those other voices and wind around the dried glue and the twisted tape. Maybe that voice. That one voice that always found it’s way to your ears even in the puddle of broken human on the floor of solitary. Even then. And maybe during. You heard it. You heard him.

‘Please don’t do this.’

The same way you’ve heard since he stood in the backroom of the VFW. Please don’t do this. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t then. Because you had to. You had to do it back then. And he didn’t understand. 

‘Please don’t do this.’

During. Maybe during all of that. Maybe in the middle of all of that. It was the one thing. It was the only thing you heard. And maybe you were eighteen again. And you were walking down the aisle. And you were holding a hand. And maybe this time. Maybe this time it wasn’t her hand. 

How? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter because it’s all wrong. Every single broken piece is jagged and dangerous. And every single broken piece is breaking into smaller and smaller pieces with every single breath he takes. But small? Small is manageable. And small? Small is this. Small is righting the first wrong. The very first wrong that he is used to righting. Every time. Every single time he ended up in bed with someone, anyone, no matter what reason or what they were hiding from. The first wrong he always righted was putting himself in front of the door. Putting himself in danger first. 

The moonlight and the manmade mural of hues have made their way further up Ian’s body. Touching his elbow now. By the time Mickey gets his feet on the carpet. Carpet under his toes. Old and worn. Soft after years, decades of being in this century old house. Feet of present and feet of past. 

The mattress. It’s the one that became his when his whore wife was pregnant with his son. It became his when she was uncomfortable sleeping on a beat-up twin mattress. And he wasn’t about to sleep that close to her. The marriage bed. It could have been made of the world’s finest silk and it never would have been a bed. Not a place of comfort and dreamless sleep. 

His hands that used to promise FUCK U-UP but were made for nothing more than fucking up. Again and again. His hands are on the edge of the mattress and his eyes are lingering on the spread between the curtains. A memory just as jagged and dangerous as the rest, ‘yo sleepy face’. A memory just as broken and horrific as the rest.

His hands are pushing as his body is lifting. He knows his body is lifting off the mattress. He knows it because he can feel it happening. He can feel the fluids and the muscles and the skin and bones moving. All moving. And taking one step. One step that turns into two. Two that turn into three. His right hand, fingers on the bed. The bed where the red-haired dream is sound asleep. Flat on his back. And it’s wrong. 

The bed where those FUCK U-UP fingers used to fist around the sheets. Tired and sore and rode into the mattress. And it was wrong. It was all wrong. Every touch of his skin was electricity that was zapping and fizzing and burning so deeply and it couldn’t be stopped. And it couldn’t be controlled. 

It’s four steps and it’s the edge of the bed. The edge of the bed where he sat that one time to burp a fussy baby. A little baby that he was so certain was his. He was so certain it was his baby. Because if it wasn’t? If it wasn’t his baby, then what had he done? What had he done to damage the red-haired dream? To push that dream further away and those nightmares closer. 

His hand turns the corner of the mattress and his feet keep moving. Every step is a mud puddle. The kind where the sludge is so thick is sucks the soles of your shoes into the muck. And when you’re a kid it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you. When your old worn out boot gets stuck in the mud and you walk right out of it. You turn around and there’s your boot. Standing up in the slick brown muck of another winter faded. 

But what happens when that muck is your life and that boot is your soul? And somewhere along the way you left, you watched as that boot grew further and further away from you. 

You did the things you had to do to survive. Survival isn’t a choice. It isn’t a luxury of the fittest. It’s something beat into your soul from the day you’re born. 

He lifts his hand on the way past Ian’s feet. The quilt Ms Bodnar added to the pile, the stacks of blankets to drape over his shivering body. The quilt she hand sewed sitting next to him for days or weeks or months or maybe even a year. Fuck, maybe his entire life. But she talked. And she kept talking and humming and singing. And she did it like he was listening, like he was talking back and humming with her and singing along. She did it like it was okay if he wasn’t. And if he didn’t want to. And if he couldn’t. It was okay. But she didn’t stop. 

His hand meets the quilt before the next corner of the mattress. And he’s stopped counting steps. Carpet under foot. Worn. Bare feet. Cold. They’re cold. He can’t remember last time they were warm. Ms Bodnar kept putting socks on his feet. Then tucking them under the mountain of blankets. And somehow the socks would end up on the floor. He didn’t do it. He could swear he didn’t do it. But he must have. 

His hand is leading the way to the center of the mattress. The mattress. The bed. Where that one time. And that other time. And then there was that time. The times between the storms. And sometimes in the eery calmness of the yellow glow before the storm. It was right. It was right then. Everything in the world could have been wrong. But then, it was right.

He watches his hand. Rising, fingertips flat and crawling slowly up Ian’s long arm. That touch, he knows that touch. And Mickey knows that touch. Your responsibility is out of bed. He’s out of bed again and you have to watch him. You have to make sure he doesn’t find the knives or start a cult. You have to make sure he’s not murdering religious leaders or downing a bottle of pills. You have to keep an eye on him. He’s out of bed now. And he’s yours to take care of. And you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know what he’s capable of. 

Ian’s eyes spring open. His arm drops and his surprised gaze lands, and lingers on Mickey’s in the dimness. It lingers as Mickey lowers himself to the mattress. Beside his hip. To right this wrong. To right this one wrong. 

He leans down. As he forces his body onto the space between the edge of the mattress and Ian’s body, as Ian’s body rolls out of instinct or memory or the fog of sleep that’s still holding over the jolting panic of being woken up by your responsibility; or all of those things, as his body rolls to accommodate Mickey’s. As his arm falls into place over Mickey’s chest. The other snaking under the pillow that’s cradled to Mickey’s head. 

It’s the lower body that hesitates. It hesitates. Mickey’s hesitates to move back, to make contact. And Ian’s hesitates to move forward. It was only a few times, it was only a few times, but it was always the only thing that was so right. It was always so right. Every single time. But this time? Now? After more than a decade, a million lives led, this time, it hesitates. And it’s wrong. It would be wrong to lock into place. It would be wrong to feel knees and thighs and groins. It would feel wrong and the idea of it hitches in Mickey’s chest and he can’t vocalize it. He never could. He never could vocalize fear. He was convinced he never felt it. Even when it was all he felt.

He doesn’t have to. The arm around his chest disappears. And a pillow. A pillow is what he feels. Being settled against his ass and thighs. Being lodged between them. Because of all the things, all the things that prison did to him, this thing, this is the one he’ll never be able to speak and Ian will always be able to hear. 

He’ll always be able to hear it. And feel it. And know it. In all the ways he didn’t hear it. Or feel it. Or know it. The first time. The first time when he was right there. When he was right there watching but not hearing or feeling or knowing. The first time. On that couch. On that morning. 

It’s closer to right. Closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to toot my own horn... but this is my favorite chapter I've ever written for fanfic. In a twisted sad sort of way.
> 
> Okay, now I seriously am done for the day! Thanks friends :)


	24. Starting To Make Noise

Starting To Make Noise

 

Ian leans against the doorframe. Watching as the early Spring sun bursts through the heavy grey clouds overhead. Lighting Mickey up like he’s glowing from within. Luna has dropped the tennis ball on his lap. And now they’re having a stare-down. The yard just big enough for her to run some of her afternoon rambunctiousness out between morning and evening walks. Mandy’s been tossing the ball for about fifteen minutes now. Mickey sitting on the porch steps. Hands deep in his pockets. But at least he’s not shivering. It’s strange, fuck, it’s all pretty strange, but the strangest part is how still his hands have been. Ian’s used to the antsy Mickey with his hands searching for something to do. Or someone to beat on. A cig, a beer, a lighter, a shot glass. 

Not anymore. 

He watches as the breeze blows through the lone tree in the yard, the very first signs of spring in the barren branches. A red-breasted robin. The naked branches reaching up towards the blue spotted by grey. 

He listens as the old lady moves around the kitchen behind him. The linoleum is gone. It was hardwood all the way to the back door. No surprise in these old houses. It’s like the arches of the doorways. All encased with the fads of the 70’s. 

She stops beside him to watch. Mickey’s hand finally removing itself from his pocket, fingers sliding over the slobbery ball. Luna readying herself on her haunches, ears perked, eyes locked onto her target. The toss is a lazy underhand and she takes off, sending clods of mud and damp dead grass behind her. 

“She’ll love you forever,” Ian hears Mandy laugh, through the door that was left just barely cracked. Heat bills be damned, Ian needs all of his senses keyed in on Mickey. At all times. 

He smiles to himself, watching the dog bolt back over to his feet. Dropping the ball on his lap again. Readying herself for the stare-down.

“His mind is starting to make noise again,” Ms Bodnar states, patting Ian’s arm before she turns back to the kitchen, “now be a dear and get the lunch dishes out.”

————

“Jesus Ian, I didn’t know the house was getting a complete make-over while you were here,” Debbie sighs, eyeing the place while Franny throws herself into Ian’s arms.

“Hey you,” the tightest squeeze he can get away with.

“I brought my story cubes over for us! Mom said it wasn’t a good idea to bring the charades since Uncle Mickey is still recovering, but we could do story cubes as long as we were quiet.”

Uncle Mickey. It clouds Ian’s chest. And he’s not sure why. In all the years of her life there was never once an Uncle Trevor. And now she’s nine and she’s never even laid eyes on Mickey, but he’s already taken that revered place, “sounds good,” he hopes it comes out more clearly in the air than it does in his head, clearing his throat, “after dinner. You have homework this weekend?”

“Yeah, but half is done. And the other half is for tomorrow.”

His eyes rise to meet Debbie’s as they land on his face, “are you sure this is okay? I mean, I can…”

“No. Debs, it’s fine. You’ve had this weekend planned for months now. I told you I’d watch her, I’ll watch her.”

“Ian, I…”

“No. Go, it’s fine. We’ve got dinner in the oven, and we’ve got story cubes to keep us busy until bedtime. Tomorrow we’ve got the aquarium and homework. Monday we’ve got school.”

“Yeah, and having her stay here inspired us to clean out another bedroom,” Mandy adds dryly from where she’s sitting at the table with her laptop, “you get my bedroom Franny,” she eyes her like she’s not entirely sure what she’s supposed to do with a nine year old girl. At her age, Mandy was selling weed and digging graves. She finally shrugs, “but Uncle Mickey is good at building forts if you’d prefer a fort in the closet.”

“A fort in the closet? Can we?”

Fuck, sounds like Mickey’s life. A fort in the closet. 

“Don’t see why not,” that voice. That voice is gravel and grunge and the most incredible sound Ian has ever heard in his life. He’s starting slow. Like he supposed to. A few walks a day down to the corner. Sometimes to Ms Bodnar’s house. Usually with the old lady. Sometimes with Luna. A couple times alone now, but then Ian stands at the gate and waits like a worried mother on the first day of school watching her child until the bus pulls up to the corner. 

He sits heavily in the chair beside the door. Not that Ian put it there for that specific reason. It was just a convenient place to stash the extra chair while they were working on the kitchen floor. And then they found a good buy on a new dining set so the one chair just stayed there. Not because he knew Mickey would need it, his shaking legs and his trembling core that he’d never admit to having, would need to sit down immediately. Let some heat from inside penetrate his outer layer, let some blood slow and some shakes dissipate before he could even start working on his boots. 

But that’s not why the chair was put there. Not at all. 

Franny has untangled herself from Ian’s embrace, taken the steps over to stand in front of Mickey. Hands clasped behind her back as she rocks on her heels, eyeing him slowly. His gaze is locked onto hers, sizing each other up until Franny breaks the ice by offering her hand, “Frances Harriet Gallagher.”

A tiny smirk, maybe like a sixteenth of a smirk rises on Mickey’s face, “I fuckin’ see that,” grasping her hand, “Mickey.”

“What’s your proper name Mickey?”

“None of your business,” chewing on his lower lip, the code that Ian will probably never figure out, “Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich,” he concedes. 

“Respectable,” she nods her approval, “a proper name has to be respectable if you want to be respected.”

“She been down at the Alibi lately or what?” Ian wonders towards Debbie.

Her eyes roll in response as her daughter’s dialogue continues, “they started some family tree project stuff at school. It’s been… um, really fun,” she fakes a huge smile when Franny looks her way. Only for long enough to briefly interrupt her speech that Mickey is at least pretending to hang on every word of. 

“You’re sure about this?” she wonders again from the entryway, eyes flashing from one Milkovich to the other.

“Yes,” Ian and Mandy respond in unison. 

“Okay,” hands up in defeat, “okay. Fran, get over here. Give me kisses to last a weekend.”

————

Fuck, he looks exhausted. Just in the lantern shadow of the blanket and pillow fort in the closet where he’s reading Franny the book she brought. For about the tenth time. And she’s reading it. For about the tenth time. He made it through two rounds of story cubes before he was just slouched on the couch nearly asleep, or nearly dead, or both of those things. But he forced himself back to life when Franny started tugging on his hand and begging for the closet fort.

“Alright,” Ian slides the sheet aside when the final page is read and before Franny can beg for one more, “lights out.”

“No! Mom lets me read it once more to myself with my lantern on.”

“You sure about that?” out of reflex his hand has reached out, giving Mickey a boost to his feet. 

“Yeah. I’ll lay down, on my belly and read it. Then if I fall asleep with the lantern on,” a giant yawn interrupts her, “Mom turns off the lantern.”

“Fran, it’s late.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“It’s Saturday,” Mickey’s voice reminds him from where he’s sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s Saturday,” Ian sighs his agreement, “okay. You comfortable in there?”

“Yeah, this is totally cool.”

“Okay. You going to be able to find the bathroom if you get up at night?”

“I never get up at night. Unless I get up at night. Then I have this,” she reminds him, pointing at the lantern, “to light my way.”

“Sounds like it ain’t her first sleepover.”

“Isn’t.”

“Fuckever.”

She takes a sharp inhale, about to chew him out for that, but Ian interrupts her, “alright Franny. Get some rest. I’m right there if you need me.”

“I won’t need you.”

“Okay, well if you do.”

“I won’t.”

“Sounds like she won’t,” his voice is raspy from overuse after basically not using it for who knows how long. 

“I can see when I’m outnumbered,” kissing his fingers and pressing them against Franny’s forehead. 

By the time he turns around and his eyes land on the bed, he sees Mickey’s already climbed in. Lying on his side facing the door. The sheet draped over his shoulder, the first blanket pulled up to his armpit, the third blanket at his waist, and the fourth one to his knees. It’s like a sauna under those blankets. The way Mickey radiates heat. And all those layers. It doesn’t stop him from waking in a cold shivering sweat most nights. 

Ian slides into bed behind him. Taking a moment to give him some space. Time to settle into the mattress but not enough time to fall asleep. If he’s already asleep when Ian climbs in, he waits, he waits until Mickey’s body makes the move. Until it leans back and clicks into place. 

Situating the extra pillow against his groin, watching Mickey turn his head into his pillow, making his correct divot. He watches his ribs move, lifting with a deep inhale and slowly relaxing with his gentle exhale. Then he makes his move. 

Whispering as he nears, knowing it’s Ian behind him but he still needs the reminder, “you see that robin today?” not waiting for the answer, “first one I’ve seen this year,” as his right arm burrows under the pillow, finding Mickey’s hand and linking, “I’m so ready for Spring,” left arm reaching around his shoulder, hand finding his bicep. Fuck, Ian’s nearly certain he could wrap his fingers around MIckey’s upper arm, “smell of mud and dead leaves melting out of the snow,” settling his cheek into the pillow behind Mickey’s head. Taking a long inhale and falling quiet. Knowing it’s okay, Mickey is okay. He can feel that through the beating of his heart against his arm, the pattern of his ribs in and out with his breathing. Every single fucking rib is visible. He’s fallen into sleep, that quickly, “I love you,” breathy whisper into his hair as his eyelids roll shut.

“Uncle Ian?”

Fuck, “what Fran?” eyes open again.

“I need you.”

“For what?”

“Disguise,” Mickey mumbles through half sleep that Ian was convinced was full sleep.

“You’re okay,” Ian whispers in response.

“Disguise!” Franny repeats, “that’s what it is! Thanks Uncle Mickey!”

He grunts something, sounds like a deflating balloon, and feels an awful lot like a deflating balloon against Ian’s chest. A stabbing pain of guilt cuts through him when he thinks about how quickly Franny took to Mickey, and how quickly Mickey responded to it. And his son? 

Fuck. First things first, getting him stable and healthy. Then his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a child to the happiness equation - kids are built to love people and they only learn to hate through the adults in their lives so a kid doesn't give a shit what kind of shape Mickey is in (I'm sure Debbie would have talked over a few things with her before letting them meet). And once the ice is starting to crack, it's a lot easier (I've always thought) to put on a happy face for a kid even when you don't feel like doing it, and once you start to feign some happiness it maybe makes you remember what it's like to smile, to talk, to... feel without having to think about it. 
> 
> We got the first 'fuckever' out of him, feels like a little more ice cracking. 
> 
> I know I haven't been reminding you guys to comment, but honestly I am a comment whore. Especially on these heavier works that don't gain much audience so the small audience that is here is very important. I usually try to respond to comments within a day (those of you that are always 'down for me' know all this already), but I always like knowing I'm not alone in wanting to make Ian work for it, damn it! I also know with this rapid fire posting, it's going to take some time for a few of you to get the time to read it, so if you're reading after it's posted feel free to chat it up too! I'm about as good at accepting compliments as I am at accepting hugs, but I'll take it all including constructive criticism. Another thing - I don't do the beta reader thing, so you who are reading in posting time are my beta readers - so sometimes comments can go further than you think!


	25. A Number

A Number

 

Mandy stubs out the first smoke, paces in front of the building, then lights a second. She quit, she truly quit smoking. This is just a bump in the road. This is just, well, this is just a hiatus from being healthy. Because she’s allowed to do that from time to time. She’s not one of those people that will tailspin if she has one day where she allows herself to slip-up. She’s not like that. 

The Spring rain is dropping slowly and steadily into the puddle beside the awning. She’s paced this space about a hundred times since she exited the building. Fuck. She wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t. She thought she was. She thought after seeing him directly after, seeing him in the ICU and the step-down and bandaged and stapled and bloody but healing, she thought she could see anything.

Holy Christ, how does a number, how does a number on a fucking scale, how does that scare her more than anything she’s ever seen before? What the fuck? And it’s not like she couldn’t look at him and see that he was fucking skinny, unhealthy and bony and his skin was mostly a weird color but everyone’s skin is a weird color in a Chicago winter. But that number, that number popped up on the fucking scale and she couldn’t fucking breathe.

Ian had some training thing he couldn’t avoid. And she wasn’t about to not be dependable for her brother. She wasn’t about to leave him standing on that cliff alone again. Fuck her new job, if they weren’t going to give her the afternoon then she was done. And maybe she is. She’s not sure. She hasn’t heard anything yet. Whatever, she’s worth more than that fucking headache anyway. 

And she wasn’t about to leave it up to Iggy to get Mickey to his appointment. Ms Bodnar either. She would have done it, that stubborn old lady would have taken her old Lincoln Town Car out of the garage, pulled the dust cover off and drove the side roads the entire way at ten miles per hour. Sitting on a phone book and having Mickey tell her if the coast was clear as she was already inching out into an intersection. Not that it wasn’t like that during their childhood anyway, no one died back then but, well, this is safer. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The image won’t leave her mind. That damn digital scale. The way it climbs and then decides and then changes it’s mind and then decides again. It never went over 110 pounds. He weighs less than he did when he was twelve fucking years old. He’s underweight by almost thirty pounds for his height. What the fuck? Fuck. 

Now it just keeps flashing in her closed lids. The number. And now that there’s a number attached to his sickeningly thin body it makes it somehow worse. 

When Mickey was twelve and he weighed 110, he was still all stringy teenage boy muscles and even though they were stealing to eat they were never starving. Not really. Fuck Kash. That guy was fucking disgusting. Good fucking riddance. 

Shit, she’s going to have to find Mickey a job soon. His lawyer and his PO came to some kind of agreement, something that will keep him out of the overburdened court system and out from behind bars, but he’ll have to start following the rules of his parole pretty damn soon. As soon as the doctor clears him, and the doctor will clear him sooner rather than later, it’s not like the medical system gives a shit about their impoverished patients. They’d rather wash their hands of them long before healing them. The thirty seconds she spent with the head shrinker, she seemed maybe like she still did her job for the job instead of the pay, but can you ever really tell with any of those assholes? 

She lights a third one. Fuck it. She just bought the pack for now, she’s going to smoke the whole fucking thing while Mickey is in there for his hour long session with his shrink where he probably just glares at her the entire time and won’t say a fucking thing. Who the fuck’s paying for this shit? 

Damn it, add it to the list of things she needs to talk to Ian about. Fuck him for all of this. For taking care of Mickey like this. Fuck, for loving him still. Why the fuck did he… no, never-mind, none of the past shit matters. Not for them. Not anymore. 

Gross, she stubs the third cigarette out, only about a quarter of it smoked, it’s fucking disgusting. And she remembers exactly why she quit. 

Fuck it, she’ll wait in the waiting room and read some bullshit celebrity gossip and hate all those fuckers. Is that really what people are concerned about? What clothes their favorite piece of shit celebrity wore to whatever piece of shit awards show happened last? Or who’s got baby bliss now? Or who’s getting a divorce?

Well she can’t face that vapid bullshit either. 

She plops herself down in the waiting room, giving a quick nod to the girl behind the desk. The office isn’t bad for a stuffy professional office. She supposes. It’s not like the shithole community health buildings where the receptionist is behind plexiglass or bulletproof glass because you just never know who’s going to come in for their court-ordered mental health check. 

This is like a dentist’s office. She must specialize in divorces or something. Kid’s corner, magazine rack. It’s not the worst thing ever.

“Help yourself to some coffee or tea,” the woman behind the desk offers.

Mandy’s fingers meet her eyes for a quick grind before she gets to her feet, “guess I might as well,” thinking she’s probably going to at least pay for some of this shit, it’s not like she’s going to let Ian pay for it himself when the bills start piling up. And Mickey? Fuck, he’s never saved a damn penny, and it’s not like he was making pennies behind bars. So what’d he do when he got out? Worked some shit job at some shit box store and blew it all on drugs and booze most likely. 

Either way, she’ll help foot whatever part of the bill she can, so she might as well drink some of this freshly locally ground hipster bullshit slow roasted, holy fuck that’s good. That is good coffee, “wow, this is really good.”

“Thank you,” her smile is kind, and somewhat embarrassed. Why?

Mandy turns the tag on the carafe, it’s hand-written in some fancy scrawl, ‘Bella’s Beans’, “this a local place?”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that,” she smiles again, “I’m Bella. It’s a hobby.”

“A hobby? And you haven’t hopped on the millennial band wagon to turn your hobby into a full time career?”

She blushes this time, “no, well, sort of. My brother and I started selling at the local craft shows, markets a couple years ago to help my mom out with my dad’s medical bills. Guess it turns out when you can make a living off your hobby then your hobby becomes work. So,” she shrugs, “I guess I’m taking a break. But my mom and brother are opening a shop in a couple weeks, it’s like a hybrid bakery, coffee house, and bookstore,” opening the top drawer of her desk and handing Mandy a brochure.

“Southside?”

“Yeah. Cheaper, and it’s really an up and coming neighborhood, the area it’s in…”

“I know the area,” she interrupts, “they hiring?”

“Nights and weekends. The time slots no one wants.”

“Um, I do. I’ll take anything right about now.”

“You have experience?”

“You’re like fifteen, started your own little business and handed it off to your elders, and you’re really going to ask me if I have experience?”

That cute little blush deepens and she laughs in spite of herself, “I’ll text my mom your name, can you meet with her on your way home from here?”

“Love to.”

————

He hasn’t said anything, just sitting in the front seat staring out the window as the rain lightly splatters against the glass. Head turned, not making eye contact. This Mickey, she has no idea how to be around this Mickey half the time. Ian says to make it normal, but how the fuck is she supposed to be normal when he’s silent? Mickey is a never-ending supply of snarky comebacks and crude comments. 

His attention doesn’t even shift when she stops in front of the fancy pants new business going in down the street. Right where the Kash N Grab used to be. She nearly laughs out loud at the coincidence. Fuck Kash. 

“Um,” she sighs, “stay here. I guess.”

Fuck else would I go? But it doesn’t happen. Nothing does. 

“Okay, fine don’t fucking wait here,” she reaches over him and shoves his door open, clicks his seatbelt off and gives his shoulder a shove, “either walk home or come inside.”

She stops paying attention after that. Smoothing her hair back and checking her teeth, popping a breath mint before she gets out, and strides over to the building. When she yanks the door open, her mouth nearly drops at the sight of the interior of their old shithole neighborhood store. It sure in the fuck ain’t a shithole anymore, “holy shit,” she breathes as her eyes scan over the hipster paradise in front of her. Who knew? 

“You must be Mandy?” 

Holy shit, this lady is pure hippy. The old style of hippy, like the kind that was actually around for Woodstock, “uh yeah.”

She shakes her hand but doesn’t shake the shock out of her head just yet, “and you two are certainly siblings,” when her eyes glance over Mandy’s shoulder. 

Shit, he did come in. Shit, she was not expecting that. Fuck, now she’ll get this job out of pity. Fuck it, a job’s a job and it’s not like she’s roasted coffee beans before, a job offer made from pity is still a job offer, “brother Mickey.”

“I’m Char,” she smiles, grasping Mickey’s hand that Mandy is certain is cold. His hands always used to be so god awful warm, “stunning bone structure runs in the family. Come in, sit down, tell me about yourselves.”

————

“Not just dumb enough to hire one Milkovich,” Mandy is smirking on her way in the door, “dumb enough to hire two!”

“That’s pretty fuckin’ dumb,” Iggy agrees from where he’s lounged on the couch, booted feet propped on the coffee table, game controller in his dirty grasp.

“Take your fucking boots off before you put your feet on the table,” she hisses at him.

Rolling his eyes, but he obliges. Of all the shithead things her brothers do and all the shithead ways they treat each other, Iggy seems to be the only person capable of treating Mickey like a human. At all times. Well, Iggy, Franny, and Luna. But that’s not really surprising. Kids are kids and dogs are dogs. And Iggy? She watches him hock a glob of mucus into a spitter. Guess Iggy is a combination of the two, “you started chewing again?”

“Nah, it’s that fake shit. It’s fuckin’ gross. Keeps me out of…” spitting into the former Mountain Dew bottle, “other stuff.”

“Okay, well, when that logic fails you and you get back into the other stuff, then you’re out of this house,” she reminds him.

His middle finger responds for him before he tosses a game controller at Mickey, “who the fuck hired you? You look like Bale in The Machinist, what was the guy’s name? Fuckin’ gross anyway. Here,” handing over a bag of M&M’s that Mickey doesn’t take, “fine, suit yourself. Got fuckin’ Fallout from a guy I work with, it ain’t bad. What dumbass hired you? Must’ve been a pity hire.”

“Jesus Christ Iggy,” Mandy scowls at him.

But Mickey is sitting on the couch, Luna has already found his lap and there’s some expression on his face. His fingers, that Mandy is hoping will stop hurting to look at, sliding over Luna’s head. 

“Trevor Reznik, that was his name. You remember that movie? We watched it…”

His voice just keeps right on going. Long after Mickey has fallen asleep on the couch beside him, at least the idiot has enough sense to pull the afghan down around Mickey’s shoulders. When he pats it against his chest, it’s certainly the most gentle thing Mandy has ever seen Iggy do to their brother, and when he realizes she’s watching he glares at her, “what?”

“Nothing,” she snickers, turning her attention back to her brand new employee handbook in her lap. 

————

“You really think he’s ready for that?” Ian’s face dropped immediately when she told him the news. He wiped it off pretty quickly, gave Mickey a reassuring nod, but now that they’re both shifting around the kitchen aimlessly pretending not to be helicopter parents while they listen to the shower through the closed bathroom door. 

She shrugs, “doctor’s going to clear him whether he’s ready or not. At least this way, I’m there. I already told Char we’d need the same shifts, told her it was a transportation thing, also told her about the whole criminal recored thing,” her hand rises to chew on her thumbnail as Ian scans her over, “he’s not ready, is he?”

“No. But you’re right. Doctor’s probably going to clear him soon. When does the place open?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” he repeats, his hand rising to rub the length of his face and through his hair.

“Hey,” her hands come down on his when they drop towards the counter, “he’s doing okay Ian. And it’s Mickey, under all that silence and stillness, it’s still Mickey. And Mickey needs to be busy. When Mickey’s not busy, Mickey finds reasons to do dumb shit. Ten years of being in prison and not being busy, it’s changed him, there’s no denying that. But soon enough he’ll be showing up all cracking knuckles, raised brows, and sarcasm.”

“Fuck, I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously hipster paradise is not endgame job for either of them, but they'll have to start somewhere. And yeah, it's a weird ass fit - I don't know a whole lot about legal shit, but there would be certain guidelines in Mickey's parole agreement that would limit his job opportunities, add to that his spotty education past, the opportunities are not exactly going to fall at his feet. 
> 
> Hippy coffee lady? Sure, why not?
> 
> And you're welcome for that really horrifying image of how skinny he is. Makes me shudder, not going to lie.


	26. One Thing You Remember About Me

One Thing You Remember About Me

 

The room is dark, pitch darkness, he can’t see his hand in front of his face. But he knows where he is. He knows exactly where he is as he sits on the end of the bed. And he takes a deep breath and the blankets beside him move and she stirs. And she whispers, “baby, what are you doing awake?”

“I can’t sleep,” his voice is timid. Already. 

The blankets move again, this time violently and his father’s gruff voice demands, “get the fuck outta this room.”

Even in darkness Mickey knows the vicious animal about to pounce, he gets quickly to his feet and scampers out the door. Something slams against the wall just as he darts around the doorway and into the hall. The hall where the light reveals his seven year old self. A dirty ripped t-shirt and a hand-me-down pair of pajama pants that are too small and shredded at the bottom hem. 

His hands are shaking when they rise from his sides, his hands that are clean, fingernails that are dirty. He backs himself against the wall in the kitchen. Knowing he should retreat, he should retreat to his own bedroom and close the door. It was dark in there, dark enough that maybe he didn’t know which kid it was. Maybe he’s still asleep enough he’ll just go back to sleep. Or maybe he’ll just let it go this time. He’ll let it go. 

Mickey didn’t know he was home. He didn’t know he was home. 

When the door flings open he stands his ground. Keeps his eyes on the floor, but doesn’t take a step back. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cry out, doesn’t make a single fucking sound. 

And when it’s over and he’s crumpled on the floor beside his bed, when he’s bleeding into the rag that Mom is holding against his face. When he’s cradled against her and she’s stroking his hair and reminding him, “it’s for your own good.”

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t call out. He doesn’t fight it. He’s silent and still and he accepts it. He accepts that his life is this. And his life will always be this.

————

Lying on his back, listening to Ian beside him. He’s sitting up against the pillows, reading something.

It’s early. It must be early. The light is grey and the sky is the color of the city’s sky any time of night. 

His hands have risen between him and the ceiling. The skin he peeled. The skin he burned. The skin he scraped with his own teeth. First was U. The first U. For awhile it read FUCK UP and it made sense. It made sense because that is exactly what Mickey is. It is exactly what he always has been. Always will be. It was on the second U that he exposed his own bone. Sitting on the floor of his cell with his new shiv. And he watched it. By then he didn’t feel. And he didn’t matter. Not to anyone. 

“The first one is the one that’s worst,” he hears himself say, “first everything. First broken rib, jaw, nose. First dead body. First deal. First stabbing. First gunshot. First bullet. And the okay stuff too. First kiss. First fuck. First love. It’s always the worst,” his voice is steady and his body is numb, but his hands are already shaking, “first pistol whipping. First,” his voice trails off to barely a whisper as his eyes linger on the hand that used to say FUCK, “rape. First beat-down. First solitary. First letter,” his left pointer finger lifts away from the rest, but his hand falls from the air in front of his face and taps down on his chest. The I. Taps once, twice, three times. Tap three times to get his attention. To know he has his attention without turning his head to see him. His hand rises to the space between his eyes and the ceiling again, “the first one is always the worst.”

He hears Ian adjusting. The training booklet he was reading being closed, set on the bedside table. He knows he’s shifting but he won’t approach. Not without some kind of warning. A verbal warning. 

Mickey interrupts, “can you tell me,” his voice is shaking nearly as much as his hands are, “one thing, just one thing that you remember about me.”

“Mick,” it’s a sigh and he’s not moving anymore. 

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember who I am. I don’t,” his voice chokes off and his hands that would normally be against his lids now are still trembling in the space in front of his watering eyes, blurring with tears that he’s getting used to. It’s all he can do anymore. Cry, sleep, cry, sleep, “just one thing,” he whispers, “one thing you remember about me. ‘Cause I can’t find it. I can’t find me.”

Ian’s hand slides over his jaw, his body stretches alongside Mickey’s, lips whispering gently against his ear, “I can tell you three things. I can tell you three things if you promise to never fucking forget them,” his arm is resting against Mickey’s chest, hand holding his face close, “you are so fucking strong. You are so fucking brave. And you are loved. Mickey you are loved, it’s fucking impossible not to love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical reference time: 'There's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing' - well, there's a piece of Adam Duritz in every thing that I write. Sure, I was eight when August And Everything After came out, but it pretty much shaped my high school years and that album will forever hold a place in my heart. Recovering The Satellites had it's own gems too, such as Have You Seen Me Lately :  
> 'Could you tell me the things you remember about me  
> And have you seen me lately?  
> I remember me  
> And all the little things  
> That make up a memory'  
> I'll always love that song. I resurrected some of the old '90s tunes - there were some great lyrics in that decade.
> 
> I should probably have something to say about that chapter, but my brain took a sharp right and headed down music lane instead.


	27. Too Many Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MENTIONS OF MICKEY'S FUCKED UP PSYCHOTIC CELLMATE

Too Many Chances

 

Tears have built up around his thumb. He hasn’t wiped them away. Mickey’s hands have finally lowered, landing on Ian’s forearm. They’re gripping in the pattern of his cut-off breaths. 

He used words. Mickey used some words. And they’re crashing together inside Ian’s mind, falling apart into single letters and stringing themselves back out in block words. Black ink. Black ink on pale flesh. FIRST. RAPE. LOVE. WORST. 

The first one is always the worst. The first. The first, fuck, is there a second, is there a third? Is there, fuck, how many? How many rapes? How many loves? And why the fuck is Ian’s brain getting stuck on the love part? Ian was the first, he had to be the first, he was the first love. He knows that, he knows, but what was second? And why does that part hurt? Of all the things he just said, all the things he finally put words on, he finally named and he finally started to open the dialogue and Ian heard it all, he listened to it all. Fuck, is he only getting stuck on that one because it’s the easiest? Some of the others, he knew already, he knew. He knew that the first broken bones were only one in the many. The first beat-down was only one in the many. The first kiss, fuck, the first kiss, it was the first in a line of soul-devouring kisses that left Ian breathless and his head spinning and his body being jolted to life with the wings of a hummingbird trapped in his guts. The first fuck. Jesus, the first fuck, it was so fucking awkward and Ian was so fucking terrified and he had never looked at Mickey that way before, but he had always looked at Mickey that way, he had always seen him through stars in his eyes but he never saw him like that, he never saw him as someone who could be attracted to Ian in a million fucking years.

Fuck, and it was just the first, it was just the first time of how many fucking times Mickey put himself on the line for Ian. 

First fuck to the first kiss to the first rape. 

Fuck. Has Mickey every bottomed consensually with anyone else? 

His breath is mostly turning into panicked snorts and his chest is moving way too fucking quickly. Fuck, what is there? What is there to distract? Fuck, fuck, what is there for a good memory, for a good time, a good time that wasn’t interrupted by an abusive father, or a whore wife, or a crying baby, or bipolar disorder, or attempted murder, or prison? 

'You can’t fix me.' 

'I’m not broken.'

“The club,” he finally decides, it’s safe, it stayed safe for that moment, it stayed safe for that moment and the rest of the night, “I reached for you. To kiss you. The music was loud. The drinks were weak. We were surrounded by gay guys who didn’t give a shit who was fucking whom and there wasn’t a soul in the place who was judging you. There wasn’t a soul around us. I don’t remember anyone else. I don’t remember anything but you. Your face with the reflections of the lights. You hesitated, and you only hesitated because you were scared. You were scared and you had every fucking right to be, you should have been terrified after what happened to you for being gay. But you were surrounded by gays, and some of them maybe had similar experiences,” he readjusts, leaning over Mickey in the dim light of the bedroom. Keeping his pelvis tilted away, feeling his breathing and his heart throbbing it’s panic, hurling the emotions against his ribcage that’s barely contained by his skin stretched taut to bone.

“You hesitated to let me kiss you. Fuck, Mickey I wanted to kiss you so badly. All the time, every time you looked at me. Every time you stood next to me or in front of me or anywhere near me. And it wasn’t always about kissing to get to the act of fucking. I wanted to kiss you. Taste you and smell you. Fuck, you were so fucking gorgeous. I never told you, how fucking gorgeous you are. Inside and out,” he takes a deep breath, reeling in some of his own rising emotions, regrets bubbling to the surface, “you looked around the place, and you realized you were safe. You were safe for probably the first time in your life to do the thing you wanted to do. And you were safe with me and with all the old queens,” he feels himself smile just slightly, “I will never forget your face, you said so much with expression alone that you’d never say with words, and more often than not I was too fucking blind to see it, but that night. That night I saw your fear, and anxiety, panic budding and rising but not spilling over. I saw you realize that you were safe, you were safe to be who you were and safe to want what you wanted. And holy fuck, Mick, I was so fucking stupid back then to not realize just how fucking lucky I was that it was me you wanted,” he takes the chance to lean his forehead against Mickey’s, sliding a hand through his hair, taking note of the breathing pattern that has started to calm and the heart that has started to slow, “I was so lucky. And I was so stupid. I was a kid when you needed me to be a man. You were always a man when I wanted you to be a stupid reckless kid.”

Mickey’s fingers are leaving dents in Ian’s forearm and he realizes now that he never appreciated that before, he never appreciated the feeling of his fingers pressing his fears, and lust, passions, and love into Ian’s flesh at any given moment. 

“I want you to know now,” lifting his head away from MIckey’s to watch his eyes, glazed by the panic that’s receded to nearly nothing, but still lingering around the blues, “then, we were too young. I was a child. But now, I am ready, more than ready, and more than willing and able to be the man that you need me to be. I want to be the man that you need me to be,” fingers through his hair, “I love you,” watching his eyelids flutter shut under Ian’s touch, “I loved you then even if I never showed it,” he won’t kiss his lips, not until Mickey is ready, but he presses his lips to his forehead and lingers, “and I’ll love you until the day I die.”

————

He’s not sleeping. Neither of them are. The pillow between them, the layers of blankets over them. Mickey’s fingers playing a pattern on Ian’s forearm where it’s pressed against his chest. Ribs. Nothing but ribs and scars. Fuck, if Ian could just slide under his skin, live under those scars, weave himself into that flesh and make him whole again. His hand flattens out against Mickey’s chest, fingers wrapped around his side. 

Leaning his face close to the back of Mickey’s head and taking a long inhale. Waiting for him to speak. Or to fall asleep. Whichever comes first. 

The scent tingles through his body, softer and warmer than any pile of blankets could ever be. But his bony, weakened frame beneath Ian’s fingers is what keeps his lust in check. Whatever happened to him, over and over, whatever left those marks, whatever pushed him to suicide to avoid going back, fuck. Ian’s breath shudders and he accidentally pulls Mickey’s body closer to his own. 

A pained grunt parts his lips, “fuck, sorry, you okay?”

Hair tickling Ian’s nose when he nods. 

“I ain’t breakable firecrotch,” Ian whispers into his black and grey strands. 

“Been broken all my life,” it’s barely a whisper but it splits Ian’s soul in half.

“No, that’s nowhere near true. Mick, I…”

“Don’t,” cracked, shaking.

“Fuck. Okay. I won’t argue with you. I just,” want you to know that I know. I know how it feels to feel nothing. How it feels to feel stuck. How it feels to think that it’ll never get better, “I understand depression Mick. And I’m not going to let you break. You are not broken. Not now, not then, not ever.”

Silence. A shaky breath.

Jesus, fuck, just talk, just speak. Just say something. Anything. The door is already open. I am listening. I’m here. Fuck. Shifting to wrap both arms tight, both hands flat against his chest. Flat against the mural of scars. Feeling his heart beating, his broken heart still beating. Taking a deep breath. Tilting his head to press his lips against his shoulder, the same shoulder he pressed them against in the dugout in maybe a different life. The dugout where the constellation of freckles was more brilliant and bright than any constellation in the night sky could ever be. The dugout where the lights were reflecting on the field but the shadows were dancing on his flesh. Lips against what is now a scar, a layer on another layer of scar. 

Mickey’s body shudders. 

Just fucking talk Mick. Please just fucking talk. 

Ian’s lips press again. And his voice jolts out of him like he can’t contain it but he can’t bear to part with it, “he got off on blood. And if he couldn’t make me…”

Everything inside of Ian’s body comes to a slow grinding halt. Immediately a ball drops in the pit of his stomach and rolls up into his chest, drying his mouth, eyes blurring and breath cutting off.

“If he couldn’t make,” it chokes off again, forcing Ian’s grip to tighten on his body, “if he couldn’t make me bleed,” it breaks like a winter’s icy wave against concrete, “then he’d bite, bite my shoulder,” his hands find their way to his face, rubbing and grinding at his eyes, “or my asscheek. I was used to it by then. By then I had already bit my own skin off. So it didn’t, it didn’t matter, it didn’t, he couldn’t do anything to me that hadn’t already been done.”

He’s gripping Mickey so tightly he knows it hurts by now, he knows that. And he knows he needs to let go, he needs to let go. But he can’t. And the tears that have started to free themselves from his eyes are sliding over his pale shoulder, bony and scarred. Not like it was. Not like it was in the shadows of the dugout. Not like it was. But still Mickey. 

Turning his head to rake his lips against his tears that have salted Mickey’s skin. Smoothing the moisture into his flesh, pressing lips again and again into his body. Wishing he could layer that skin back on, he could build it back on with every kiss, leave enough of his own flesh on Mickey’s body. Until the only mark on his skin, the only thing there, is a print of Ian’s lips. 

He doesn’t let go, he doesn’t relax his grip until he knows Mickey is sound asleep. Breathing gently, ribs moving in and out and in and out beneath Ian’s arms. His heart slow, steady, not giving up, not giving up, under Ian’s palm. Not giving up. Not broken, “you’re not broken,” reminding the back of his head. His hair against his face, “you’re not broken.”

————

When he wakes from a dream that feels more like darkness and goo up to his waist, wading through pudding, shoulders heavy with a burden he’s not strong enough to bear. As sleep tingles start to shift and dissipate, as his mind starts to surface, the scent he fell asleep to is still under his nose. The body he was gripping is still wrapped in his arms. But it’s different again. It’s different. It’s facing him in the morning light.

Facing him, breath warm on his neck. And a grip, a grip he recognizes from every century and every life and every breath that’s ever filled his lungs. A grip, that’s as rough as it is gentle, as firm as it is soft, as tender as it is strong. A grip, up and down, a motion, a pattern, a rhythm unlike anyone else’s. The breath against his neck is slow, steady, bored even. And the hand is working at Ian’s erection. 

And fuck, that hot coil of orgasm rolling out of him and into the pillow that was supposed to be hiding any chance of morning wood, that was supposed to be keeping that shield between him and the magnetic pull of Mickey when it’s truly that last thing he wants right now, he knows Mickey’s not ready and he knows he’s not ready, and he knows, Ian knows this is not what he’s here for. This was never what he was here for. 

“Mick,” it’s breathy and sounds distant through the sleep that’s still tingling, and this can’t be real. This can’t be, that didn’t just happen. But now his weight is shifting off the bed and Ian’s eyes are opening and there’s no denying it’s real. Fuck, fuck, “hold on,” it croaks out of his mouth and he’s watching Mickey’s form retreating from the bedroom. Pulling a t-shirt down over his head and shutting the door behind him.

————

“Why are you still here?” Mickey is sitting on the end of the bed, facing the wall, or the window with the curtains parted. The Spring sun glinting off the house next door, off the puddles slowly evaporating in the morning’s damp air.

His shoulders are slumped, fingers playing with the quilt under him. 

That wall is up. Mickey’s brick and mortar. His voice is gruff and he won’t look at Ian.

'Would you at least look at me?!'

Fuck.

“Why are you still here?” he wonders again. 

Breath cutting off as he steps inside the room and closes the door behind him. He takes the steps. Apprehensively. Mickey doesn’t want him to answer that question. He doesn’t want to look at him. He doesn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t want to hear his voice or his reasons or his apologies. 

Four steps across the carpet. Four steps before he lowers himself quietly to the bed. Sitting gently. The sweat from his morning run still slippery on his skin, under his light layers. Socks damp from the puddles he splashed through, letting the cold water of rain and melting snow soak through his sneakers, feeling it slosh between his toes and seep into the soles. 

He takes a deep breath, holds it. Waiting. For a tongue lashing or a whispered shaky, ‘don’t’. 

But nothing. 

The exhale is slow, shallow, and he waits. He hears Mickey’s hands rise, heels into his lids, grind. Deliberate. 

And he waits.

Knowing Mickey is blinking now. Blinking away the fog he created. And maybe some fog that was created for him.

“You need to leave. Before,” it cuts off in his throat and he waits. A deep breath, “leave before this gets worse. Before,” clearing his throat and Ian is so fucking glad he can’t see his face, but he knows anyway. He knows exactly what his face is doing, he knows exactly how twisted in pain it is, “before I love you again. I can’t. You can’t. This is…”

And his heart is thudding in his ears and his blood is rushing too fast and too hard. Sweat filming his palms.

“You can leave. Now. And we can call it even. I took care of you. You took care of me. But I can’t,” it breaks again. Trembles, “I’ve loved you. Before, before you knew who you were. During, when the diagnosis made you unrecognizable. And after. After, when you told me you’d wait. I’ve loved you three times. Three different people. The first one hurt the most. The second one, I was dumb enough to think it was real. You were real. The whole thing was real. And the third one, fuck,” his voice is growing in strength and it’s making Ian’s chest tight, heart hurling itself haphazardly at his ribcage, “you couldn’t do anything to me you hadn’t already done. But I still, I…” something hits the wall. Ian flinches but he’s glad. He’s glad to see this. He’s glad to hear it. Because he knows. The punch in the dugout. He knows. This is the part. The part he has to feel. Anger. All of the anger, “I hoped,” but the anger breaks and the shattered glass on the floor is under his bare feet and it’s embedded in his arch and it’s sharp and jagged. It’s pin pricks in his soles and a bullet in his heart, “I can’t love a fourth time.”

He wants to get up. He wants to take the steps around the foot of the bed. He wants to lift Mickey by his arms and drag him into his chest, lean into his forehead and take a deep inhale of him. He wants to dive into his lips and crash against his tongue. He wants to tell him over and over again that he’s staying, that he’s staying. 

But he doesn’t.

Instead, a sigh, “no.”

He listens as Mickey breathes. Maybe shock. Maybe anger. Maybe sadness. Maybe resignation, “no what?” a growl.

Ian feels a smile rising on his face, though has no fucking idea why. As he shifts off the bed, he takes those steps he thought he wouldn’t take. He stops in front of Mickey, and he kneels. His hand is steady though his entire body feels like a the slightest wind could knock him over, “no. No to all of that.”

Mickey’s eyes are narrowed, untrusting. Red-rimmed and foggy. Beach glass. Washed for years in pain of sadness, smashing and rolling violently in the waves of his life. 

“Mick,” hand landing on to Mickey’s knee, “Not leaving. We’re not even, we’re nowhere near even. And that’s not what this is about. I’m not doing you a favor because I think I owe you. I mean, I do owe you, really, fuck. I would have killed me, wrapped my hands around my neck when I told you I filmed a porn or when I stole your baby,” it sounds foreign on his tongue, like it happened in some far off life, “but you didn’t. You gave me way too many chances. And I fucked them all up. But this time,” he sighs, peering into those eyes, the same ones he was afraid to look into for so long. And once he did he fell so fucking hard so fucking fast and so fucking deep that there was no chance of ever resurfacing, “this time you can’t give me a chance. And I understand. But I’m taking it anyway. I’m taking a chance and I’m not fucking it up this time. I am not fucking it up,” the hand resting on his knee rises.

It rises without his permission and it takes a gentle grip on Mickey’s chin, thumb sliding over his lip, that lip that has Mickey’s coded messages gnawed into it, typed out and indecipherable, “if you want me to leave, you’re going to have to make me.”

Eyes staying on Ian’s. Lip being dragged into his mouth, teeth marking up his unspoken words. His head shakes and he jerks his chin out of Ian’s grip. But he doesn’t move and his focus doesn’t shift. 

Ian takes a deep breath, patting his knee as he stands, “okay, come on, get your jacket. Let’s go.”


	28. Human

Human

 

“The fuck is this Gallagher? Another one of your ‘let’s feel things’ field trips?” Ian sighs, leaning back against the bench beside Mickey in Spring’s lame sunshine.

He’ll give him that. He won’t give him much. Not this time around, but he’ll give him that. He’s got Mickey’s speech patterns down. He ain’t got the right tone of voice. Nowhere near. And when Mickey looks over at him, and he tries some brow game, well, he ain’t got that either. But he’s smiling when he does it. And there’s something tugging at the inside of Mickey. Like he wants to smile back, he wants to feel it. He wants to feel what it’s like to sit in the park in the weak sun as it fingers it’s way through Ian’s fire, and just smile at each other.

But he can’t.

He wonders if he ever could. If maybe there was a time. Maybe in the dugout. Maybe that time in the dugout. And maybe that time at the store. Maybe once at the old buildings. Maybe, maybe there was even a time at the Gallagher house. Maybe. 

Instead, he feels his chin tremble as he bites down hard on his lower lip to keep it in check. Looking away from Ian and into the park. The grass, still dead and beaten down by a year of heavy snow. The snow starting to melt into nothing more than dirty ice balls randomly speckling the shade. The branches of the trees naked, reaching claws into the light blue sky. Clouds puffy and mostly white, a few grey rain clouds in the distance, riding by on the wind. 

A deep breath to clear the prickling at his eyes. It smells like Earth. Pungent. Mud. Dead leaves that are mostly rotten, broken into the ground by the falling snow. It started light, twirling ice crystals to the ground. Landing easily without breaking. Lingering and melting in the Autumn’s early morning sun. It would have continued that way, easy and melting off quickly for weeks. And then one day the Earth froze. The ground froze around the leaf.

Mickey’s eyes linger on a dead brown leaf smashed into the ground. Nothing but dead grass and half-frozen lifeless world around it. He is the dead leaf. 

It’s stuck in the muck beneath. The dead grass around it coming to life, it’ll spring up green and eager for the sun. It’ll grow brilliantly bright around the dead leaf. The trees will bud. The flowers will grow and open and show their faces to the sunshine. They will feel the heat and it will feel like nourishment and love. But that dead leaf. It’ll stay the same. It’ll stay that way all summer. Life around it. Nothing but death and rotten flesh inside it. 

The sun has begun to melt the grey ice chunk beside the leaf. Slowly. Very slowly. One single drop of water. One tiny drop of water slides across the surface of the brown, shimmering in the sun as it makes it’s sleek trail across the leaf. Catching on a vein and turning course. Slipping down a limb and off into the yellow grass. 

A thumb. Gentle and warm. Slips across Mickey’s cheek. Trapping a tear in it’s swirled patterns of perfect skin. The hand stays in front of Mickey’s eyes, the tear falls from his fingertip collecting in a crease and splitting into two. Sliding down his finger and slithering away in the webbing. 

Mickey’s eyes linger on that hand. 

'Your hand, man.'

Your hand. Your hand. Your hand with a burn scar. Your hand with a burn scar. Your hand with a burn scar from that time. That time you tried to feel. When you couldn’t feel at all. 

“Your hand,” it comes out of his mouth, whispery but steady. 

The hand moves again, contacting Mickey’s face, this time not for a tear, not for any of the tears. The millions of fucking tears that won’t stop, they won’t fucking stop. This time, this time it’s for his chin. Just like earlier. Only this time when his eyes meet Ian’s, it’s dewy grass. It’s a blade of early summer grass, dripping with dew. And a smile. A gentle smile, knowing, and caring, and understanding. And not a fucking word. Not a word needed.

That hand slides across Mickey’s jaw and his mouth opens, but not for a kiss, not this time, not like all the other times. This time is opens with a gasp. And the hand slides to the back of his head. Not to tilt for a kiss. Not this time, not like all the other times. This time to steer into his shoulder. Into his shoulder that smells like sweat and musk and human. Human. 

And he feels it. He feels the warmth from Ian’s body. He feels his arms wrapping tight around his own, but not too tight. He feels it. His breath through his hair, his hand on the back of his neck, his heart against his ear. He feels the warmth and the breath and the beat. Muting the noise in his head, quieting the shouts and the clangs and the alarms and buzzers and the thuds of heavy steel doors and the cries and the fear and the terror and the pain. 

He feels it like a fucking dam bursting inside him. He feels his fingers latched tightly to Ian’s shirt, to the front of his shirt, tucked up under Mickey’s chin, the shirt balled up in his fists and it’s damp with sweat. And he raises it to his nose, taking a deep inhale of it and it chases the scent of blood and death and wishing for death. 

Ian’s hands flatten. Against his spine, against the back of his neck and his lower back. And he feels them moving. Up and down and up and down and gentle and slow. And he’s got all the fucking time in the world right now to just sit here and hold Mickey. And he’s got all the fucking silence that the noise in Mickey’s head needs. And he’s got all the fucking smells and sounds and calm to render the storm inside Mickey useless. 

And when the hands are moving up and down and they might as well be playing a xylophone with all the bumps and thuds and hollow thumps from fingers on bone with nothing but a thin layer of flesh between them. And he feels it reverberating through his body like a beat of tiny drum. 

He hears it. He hears it suddenly. Though he’s certain it’s been whispering against his ear since his arms wrapped around his body. He hears it crashing through everything else. Through prison and life and death and the house of horrors, he hears it, a promise, a quiet and strong promise, “we’ll be okay. Eventually, we’ll be okay.”

————

“So, what’d you feel?” 

Mickey doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s wearing that smug smile, like he knows Mickey better than he knows himself, “fuck you,” and it’s got some bite. 

“I know,” he sighs, and Mickey feels it against his cheek.

And Mickey knows that. Now. He knows that, “you fuckin’ stink Gallagher.”

The smile is turning dopey, Mickey doesn’t have to look at him to know, the giggle is childish, the same way it’s always been, “I know,” the lips against the top of his head are just a brush of human on human, and the hand on his arm is a tight grip, an easy rub, then a quick squeeze into his side. 

He hears Ian’s stomach rumble and it hits like something resembling worry, “you didn’t eat.”

“Not yet,” admitting quietly, realizing the same things. The same things that have become something Mickey notices. The pills. The schedule. The things they haven’t spoken of, but Mickey’s been seeing. He’s been seeing even when he wasn’t feeling. He’s been seeing even when he wasn’t looking. The things he’s been seeing through fog as thick as pea soup, but he’s been seeing them. A stable Ian. 

And now, he’s fucking that up. Fuck up. He’s a fuck up. 

He pulls out of the safety that Ian made for him. And gets to his feet quickly, blinking away spots that rise immediately when the rush of movement makes him dizzy. Fighting through it. Fighting it now because it’s not about him. It’s about a stable Ian who wants to be stable. And Mickey getting in the way of that. 

“What’s the rush?” Ian’s behind him as soon as he starts walking on shaky legs towards where Ian parked.

He’s behind him and Mickey knows he’s there, and he’s ready for Mickey to stumble, he’s ready to be the support that Mickey’s weak useless body might need. Fighting with every step like his feet are cement blocks and his legs are rusty chains. 

“You didn’t eat,” he hears himself repeat.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I won’t starve,” there’s a lightness to it, and easy tone that shouldn’t be there. He should be worried, he should be hurrying to get home and take his meds on time. He should be taking his B vitamins and why is it fogging in Mickey’s chest again?

He’s next to the car, on the passenger side. His hands are shaking when he reaches for the handle and he heard the locks, he heard Ian click the button. His hands are shaking and he opens the door, he slides in quickly and he sits. Hands pressed between his knees, riding out the shakes, realizing now that his legs are trembling as well.

“You didn’t eat either,” Ian reminds him as he situates in the driver’s seat. He’s like a fucking old man, checking the mirrors and seatbelts and he’s the one who drove here but he’s adjusting the rearview mirror again. 

He can feel his eyes on him when he turns the engine. He can feel his eyes and when his hand drops to Mickey’s knee, gives it a squeeze, he admits, “a little off schedule isn’t going to send me face first into a hurricane,” Mickey’s eyes are dragged to Ian’s, “okay?”

He nods, Ian’s hand clamps down in a quick pulse on his knee and then reaches for the shifter, “seatbelt.”

“Fuck,” and he wants to rib him, he wants to ask him if he turned seventy while Mickey was locked up. But the ball in his throat makes it impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today. I'll try to do a few more tomorrow and then take a break for the weekend, thanks again friends :)


	29. Father

Father

 

“Holy fuck,” Mandy laughs, trying like hell not to, but she has to. This is fucking ridiculous. This house, the entire drive up to it, like it’s some huge fucking gift wrapped item looming on the horizon that you have to work your ass off just to get to. And then a fucking parking spot, an actual parking spot for day visitors. No, not just one. There are five parking spots for day visitors. This is a fucking house, this is a place where people live. 

“I feel like I should poke a hole in a brake line just so I can leave a fluid mess on the parking slab,” she elbows Ian, who’s face is like a kid at a candy store. Big eyes of disbelief and hinged open jaw as he scans over the mansion in front of them.

“I feel like I should drop my drawers and take a shit on the steps.”

“That too,” she agrees, “but, here goes nothing,” wishing she had worn an evening gown for this occasion but jeans and a sweater will just have to suffice. 

“Jesus,” Ian is smoothing his hair down beside her on the steps as a butler opens the grand front doors.

“Welcome guests of Yevgeny Milkovich.”

“Fuck,” Mandy half chokes on it and rolls her eyes, “uh yeah, thanks.”

He steps to the side, opens his hand and sweeps them inside, “please remove your shoes on the mat, I will take you to the sitting room and inform the young sir that you have arrived.”

“They are Southside piece of garbage,” the voice sends prickles down Mandy’s spine, “no need to treat them otherwise.”

The butler nods, folds his hands in front of his body and sidesteps out of the room.

Svetlana looks exactly how she should look. Like someone who was forced into the sex industry from a young age and realized her only way out of it was to marry money. She has a rigid smile on her face and Mandy’s not certain she’s ever seen a real one.

“You come here to speak to son, you speak to mother first,” one hand on her hip the other pointing the direction of the room that apparently is for sitting. 

Mandy shoots Ian a sideways glance, taking note of his worried brow and his unusual silence. But he’s moving. Moving in measured steps behind the Russian, so Mandy follows. 

Fuck this, is her immediate thought when she scans the room full of uncomfortable furniture and appetizers, a tray of drinks that she doesn’t trust to be alcohol-free for Ian’s sake. 

“Eat. Drink,” Svetlana sighs, lounging on her hip on some godawful sofa so that she looks like she’s posing for a painting to be done, “sit,” her head tilts towards the chairs that look as though they belong in a period piece, what a fucking joke. 

Mandy sits, feeling as though she should cross her legs at the ankle and tuck her knees close together. But she doesn’t. She leans back, letting her legs fall open very unceremoniously, she won’t give Svet the satisfaction of knowing she’s uncomfortable. Bitch. 

Ian is sitting straight backed, hands cupped at his crotch, legs open. Looking a forced kind of natural, “nice place,” he starts.

“Yes. Only have to fuck one disgusting skin stick on the occasion he takes his purple pill for all of this,” sweeping her hand dramatically to encompass the entire place.

“Sounds, uh, satisfying.”

Mandy snickers, part of her thinking that this is exactly what someone like Svet deserves, part of her feeling bad that her life is empty and probably always has been, “alright,” when her eyes land on Mandy’s, “let’s cut right through the fuckin’ bullshit. We don’t give a shit about you. We don’t give a shit about the dick you’re suckin’ to stay here in this empty shithole of a life. Maybe the only thing you’ve ever loved is your son, and maybe that’s enough for you. Thing is, he’s Mickey’s son too. And whatever this…” now her hand sweeps across the room theatrically, “life brings him, that’s fucking great. But it’s not a father. It’s not his real father. Whatever grey bushed rich prick you married is not the boy’s father. And from what I hear, he has no fucking clue who you are most of the time either.”

Svetlana’s eyes are lingering on Mandy’s, her expression unaffected, unsurprised and uncaring, “what is father anyway? Man who sells you to highest bidder in St Petersburg? Man who,” eyes cutting through Mandy, “beats you, rapes you, belittles you? Man who calls whore over one day to fuck son straight? Man who,” now her focus shifts to Ian, “loves drink more than children? Father does not matter. Man does not matter to child. Roof over head, food in belly, all man is good for.”

Mandy’s breath catches in her throat, anger raging in the pit of her stomach, fists clenching beside her. She’s not sure who she wants to punch, if it’s Svet for being a human under that facade, if it’s her for being a woman who’s only talent is sex, if it’s her for being a mother who loves her child and that's all she’ll ever be good at. If it’s Svet’s father, or Terry. Or even Frank. If it’s Mickey for going to prison, if it’s Ian for how much Mickey must have loved him to want to kill over him. If it’s Mickey for not loving Mandy enough to kill for her. Even though he knew, and she knew he did. She saw it once. She saw that murderous look in his eye. She saw it when a knife was in his hand and he was watching Terry, knowing what he did, knowing what he was always doing. That was before, that was before he was reduced to nothing more than an empty shell of a boy who only had one thing on this Earth he cared about. Only one thing, and he cared too much, he cared too much and he lost his son and his freedom for it. 

Fuck, would it have been different if Mandy had stayed? 

Ian’s voice is steady, but quiet when it starts coming out of his mouth, “that’s not Mickey. You saw it Svet. You were there, you saw him starting to love that baby. I ruined that, that was my fault. Not his. And maybe,” it trails off, clearing his throat, his eyes are soft, a memory on the tip of his tongue, “maybe you were both raped that day. Maybe neither of you wanted to be there. Neither of you wanted to fuck the faggot straight. And maybe it was easier for you to love the baby. Maybe feeling it move inside you, or living with the baby’s father who was not a rapist but also a victim, maybe it was the best you’d do. And I fucked that up. For all three of you. But you cannot take that out on Mickey. You know him well enough to know that he is plenty capable of loving his son. And once he loves someone,” Ian shrugs, his eye contact faltering, glancing across his hands clasped in his lap, “he doesn’t stop,” a deep breath, focus shifting back to Svetlana’s face, “you know as well as I do that he was beginning to love that boy. And you know as well as I do that it was you and me who destroyed that.”

She blinks, looking at Ian with respect while at the same time wanting to gut him. 

Mandy’s stomach has fallen to her ass and bile is churned up her throat, swallowing it back and waiting. Every single word Ian just spoke is echoing in the silence of her head, bouncing off the marble and granite and porcelain of this mansion. Maybe you were both raped that day. When she takes a deep breath it shudders. But this is not hers to fall apart over. Sure, she heard him in the parking lot outside the hospital, when he told her, when he told her it was to fuck him straight. It was Terry fucking him straight, but it didn't sink in past all the other shit, all the other things swirling around like a tornado around her ears and inside her head, it didn't find her through all the other noise and debris. But right now, fuck, right now, it's settling, cutting though her soul and fully understanding every word of it, sinking in slowly and evenly, heavy on her chest, but she'll bite it back. For now, she will bite it back and they will accomplish what they came here to do. 

Svetlana is done measuring her prey, and instead of pouncing, she tilts her head in defeat, wondering quietly, “where is man who wants son back?”

“He’s had a rough go of adjusting to life outside of prison.”

Fuck, that’s one way to put it.

“But he’s working on it. We didn’t tell him we were getting a hold of you, we didn’t tell him anything at all.”

“And he did not ask of boy?” defenses rising again, she has a thread of hope, a thread she can weave into an argument that can poke holes into everything Ian just said and keep the ex-con father out of her perfectly woven facade she has her son living in the middle of.

“No, but,” his hand rises, sliding through his hair, “I know he thinks about him. And the, um…”

“You know this? Yet he is not here. He is not asking after son.”

Mandy can see frustration rising in Ian, but he holds it back, “the other day when I was putting his laundry away, I found a photo book. Photo's worn out, like he probably looked at them a lot in prison, or they were taped to the wall. There’s nothing in it but a handful of photos of Yevgeny. No one else,” the last part is barely a whisper. 

No one else. Ten years, a decade behind bars and there was no one else he wanted around, no one else he wanted photographic proof of their existence. Because everyone else abandoned him. Mandy’s eyes sting and her stomach clenches again.

“All baby pictures,” he admits as his gaze falls to the floor. 

Svetlana gets to her feet suddenly, turning her back but Mandy isn’t blind, she knows that hand that rises to her cheek is wiping off a tear as she walks out of the room.

————

“Holy fuck,” Ian’s got a look of surprise and disbelief lined with excitement on his face when Mandy starts the car.

“Yeah,” she sighs, feeling the fluttering in her own chest, “no denying that kid is Mickey’s son,” but her mouth twists when she says it and she can’t shake Ian’s words.

His hand lands on hers, giving a tight squeeze, one of support and understanding.

“You were there?” she can’t look at him. And she knows, she knows this already, he caught them together. She knows he was there, she knows he was there. And he had to watch. He had to watch that.

“Yeah,” it’s just an exhale of a word, but it bears the weight of everything past that Mandy never understood.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers it, but her eyes meet his and he nods. Knowing it’s much more than just an apology for not knowing.

“Me too,” his hand squeezes on hers again and she bites back tears for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour. 

“This is the right thing to do, right?”

“Yeah, yes. Mandy, yes. Fuck, Yev is the only person Mickey has ever loved that has never let him down. And he’s doing okay, Mickey is doing okay. So we tell him, we let him decide when he’s ready, and fuck. They’re going to fucking love each other.”

“Yeah,” this time she lets the tear fall. Sliding down her cheek, closing her eyes and knowing what’s coming next. Ian’s hand, swiping the tears away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rolling with Mickey being Yev's biological dad for this one even though I have myself convinced he's Terry's son, but for this one, he's Mickey's. Storytelling choice of course.
> 
> So do we think he's ready? Will he think he's ready? Will Ian and Mandy wait awhile longer before they even tell him?
> 
> There's a couple paragraphs in this chapter that I'm not wild about the way they're written. Oh well. There's always at least one chapter that I hate in each work.


	30. Proceed With Caution

Proceed With Caution

 

“Hey,” it’s gruff with sleep, his hands immediately coming down on Mickey’s wrists, “hold on,” clearing his throat, stopping Mickey’s hands from progressing any further than pushing the pillow aside. A finger sliding along the seam of Ian’s boxers, “hold on.”

His dick is hard. Of course it’s hard. He’s been sleeping with Mickey against his body. With his scent and his feel and his heat. Trapped under five blankets and rising sweat and goose-bumps simultaneously over the entirety of Ian’s body. 

But this, this isn’t right.

He takes a deep breath, pulls away, far enough back that he can see Mickey’s shadowed face in the darkness of the bedroom. He’s done it a few times now, woken up when it’s already too late to stop him from jerking Ian to completion. 

His eyes are brightening, but not bright. Not yet. He’s been sleeping less, almost within the realms of a normal person. 

Ian’s fingers slide down the surface of his wrists, pressing fingers between fingers and bending. Folding their arms between their chests, watching his face, his sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes. The pain that burns through his soul at the image. 

“Hold on,” he sighs again, trying to gain his bearings, trying to have a coherent conversation about sex with a guy who has no grasp of consensual sex after a decade of fag beatings in prison. Fuck, “who was it?”

His brow furls, lips purse, scanning Ian over, “who?” it’s gruff and it’s a lie, he knows exactly what Ian is asking.

“Fuck, Mick. The guy. In prison. Who got off on blood,” it twists in his guts and makes his mouth taste sour.

Mickey’s eyes close and his hands go tense in Ian’s, he wants to pull them away, Ian knows that.

“Sorry, fuck,” sighing, “fuck. I don’t know, shit, Mickey, I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to figure this part out. Can I come with you next time you talk to your psychologist? Can we go together? And figure this out? I just, you can’t just, it’s not about, I, fuck,” he sighs, “okay spit it out mumbles,” he tries but Mickey’s eyes remain closed, fingers releasing Ian’s hand but Ian is not letting go, “Mickey look at me. Please. I don’t know what to do here. I want to be here. With you, and yes eventually I want to fuck again. But this, you can’t just jerk my dick and, fuck, Mickey, look at me!” his voice breaks, “please,” calmer this time, “fuck. Fine, shut me out. That’s fine. That’s fine. Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. Just know that yes, I want to be with you. I want to be with you when you are ready. And between now and then you do not owe me favors,” one hand releases Mickey’s and his fingers reach out to trace his prominent jawline, “Mickey,” sighing softly, like it’s the last word he wants parting his lips, “Mickey, I love you. Nothing will change that. Nothing that’s been done to you will change that,” his hand that’s holding Mickey’s lifts to his lips, kissing every single finger that used to read FUCK. Lingering over every single scar and keeping it there, keeping his hand right there against his lips as he watches Mickey’s eyes moving beneath his closed lids. 

Fuck, this feels like losing. All of it does. Every step is a misstep and he’s not sure how many more Mickey can take without falling down. He’s not sure how many more he can take, “Mickey, will you please look at me?”

His breathing has gotten shallow, his eyes have calmed and his lips are parted just slightly. Cheek sinking into the pillow. Back towards the door. 

Ian watches his hand slide over Mickey’s face, feeling his bone structure and the softness of his perfect skin. The way the shadows caress every surface. His index fingers smooth an eyebrow and he realizes of all the things he misses the most about Mickey, it’s those brows darting up to nearly his hairline when he looks at Ian like he’s the dumbest fucker on the planet. The hand that’s been holding Mickey’s against his lips, squeezes tight, reassuring, “talk when you’re ready. I’ll wait.”

————

Peeling back the layers on the bed, sliding under the blankets heavily. Today was rough. He’s not sure he ever fell back to sleep last night or early this morning after Mickey rolled to face the door. And Mickey didn’t get up when Ian did. He didn’t get up until close to noon. 

When he disappeared with Ms Bodnar and Luna for the daily walk, it seemed like he was gone for hours. Mandy has decided a couple coats of paint on the kitchen cabinets and they’ll be good as new. 

So after a day of removing cabinet doors and pulls, sanding down old finish and in-depth discussions about whether or not they should spend the extra money on the cabinet paint or just see what happens if they use basic cheap wall paint, then discussing colors and finally settling on the cabinet paint in a shade that will compliment the current countertops with the stipulation that they replace the old ones in the near future and Ian got maybe a little overwhelmed that they were discussing future house plans. Maybe he hadn’t thought that far, or maybe he had, and maybe his imagination had him and Mickey living alone in some quiet apartment. One bedroom and an open floor plan with lots of windows. But a fantasy will only ever be a fantasy and Ian had to roll his options through his mind like a never-ending movie reel in black and white all day. The Milkovich house? The Gallagher house? A cheap shithole? Fuck, and what does Mickey want? After ten fucking years behind bars, what does Mickey want? 

And how many ghosts of memories can a person live with?

When his hands finally find Mickey’s body under the sheets, he draws a sharp breath, fingers contacting t-shirt cotton, “you cold?”

His head shakes.

Ian’s stomach drops. Message received. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

There’s no response. But he feels stiff as a fucking board against Ian’s chest. 

Fuck. There will be no talking to him about any of this yet, “so work in two days?”

Slow nod. 

Mandy said Mickey was more of a behind the scenes kind of employee. Evening and weekend work, roasting and grinding beans and doing prep work for the bakery. Cleaning. He’ll barely have to deal with human contact at all. Just the other employees. 

The training starts in two days, the store opens two days later. Sure, fuck Kash. His corner store that he abandoned his wife and children with is now a hipster paradise. 

“So, um, I guess we should get you some clothes.”

“No 'we'.”

“Fuck,” frustration boils quickly to the surface and mutes his patience entirely. Leaning up on his elbow and throwing Mickey’s shoulder to the bed, forcing him to his back. Ian leans over him, “there is a we. Mick. You and me,” surprise in his eyes but his brows remain unmoving, “right now. There is a you and me. There will be for a long fucking time, and you might as well get used to it.”

“To what?” he’s trying his damndest to keep his voice unaffected, “get used to the charity? Get used to you tryin’ so hard to make me what you want me to be, just so you can walk away as soon as that happens?”

“No. This is not charity. There’s nothing fucking charitable about it. Charity would mean I’m giving you something and expecting nothing in return. That’s not what this is. Mickey, this, right here, this is a partnership. This is good times, bad. Sickness, health. All that shit.”

He didn’t realize he’d pinned Mickey’s hands until just now, when the frustration is starting to ebb, just slightly, just a tiny bit when he sees his words registering in Mickey’s blue orbs in the glow of the dim bedside lamp.

“The good times will come Mick. The health will come. It will. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but,” his voice trails off, the longer he looks at Mickey’s eyes the less anger he feels. The longer he lingers over him the more passion starts pushing it’s way to the surface. But not yet. Not yet. He can’t fuck the last ten years out of Mickey any more than he can put a bandaid on an artery.

But, fuck, his eyes and the way the pillow his cupping his head. The feel of him under Ian, his wrists in his grip. Fuck. It’s going to take an act of God to pry him off without at least kissing him. 

Like he can read Ian’s mind, a warning flashes across his irises. Ian exhales, releases his wrists, but lingers over him. Proceed with caution might as well be blinking across the early Spring sky peering up at Ian. So he does. First his thumb, smoothing Mickey’s lower lip. Feeling it’s dry but not chapped. Then his nose. Leaning down, nudging against Mickey’s gently, slowly. Asking without speaking. Forehead. Touching, pressing. Mickey presses back, just a little. A tiny pressure and his nose, so lightly, nothing more than a butterfly wing’s disturbance of air. Answering without speaking. Yes.

A deep breath, fingers finding the handle of his jaw as their lips meet. So lightly. So sweetly. And stay. They just stay. Exactly that way. The hummingbird in Ian’s guts has been stirred, but it doesn’t feel frantic. And maybe that’s why it’s butterflies, maybe it’s the calm, even flapping, fluttering in his stomach and through his chest. Maybe that’s the expression. 

An inhale of Mickey’s exhale when their lips part, foreheads lean, thumb slides across his cheek and stays. He stays. Exactly that way. As that clear Spring sky flashes open, so close, so close to Ian’s face that he’s certain he can see every pigment before they disappear beneath lids again. Perfect, pink and pale lids lined with fine lashes and Ian doesn’t know how he’s never done this before. Tilting, adjusting, so delicately pressing lips to the closed lids. Feeling the flutter of those lashes against him before he slides into place in bed, with Mickey in his arms. Exactly like that. Staying. Exactly that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian's patience starting to wear a little. Keep it together buddy, Mickey needs you.


	31. An Alarm

An Alarm

 

Damn it Mickey. Mandy slides a fingertip across his pointer finger. Silk, satin under her touch. The everlasting mark of pain. 

Some fucking alarm went off. They were doing good. No, fuck that, they were doing great. For three weeks they’ve been running this fucking store like it’s nothing. And it isn’t, really. They’ve both worked way worse jobs. And Mickey’s been fine, he’s been fine. He’s been doing his tasks, going beyond his tasks to keep himself moving, keep himself busy. Probably to avoid ever having to wait on a customer, but either way Mandy is certain she could eat off the floor when he’s working. Cleaning obsessively between his bean roasting and his batter stirring. His movements all careful, measured, slow, but he does it and he does it well.

And then some fucking alarm had to go off. And it’s not like a smoke alarm. It’s louder than that. Or it was. And deeper. More resonant. Like a fucking tornado warning or something. But since when the fuck does that shit exist in Chicago?

The only two customers that were in here this time of night, they hightailed it out of the building with their cold pressed coffees and fritters and who the fuck drinks coffee at ten at night? But whatever, not her job to judge, just her job to fill the orders with a smile. 

She was grumbling about the alarm, wondering if she was supposed to leave the building, find a fallout shelter or just call Char and see what the fuck was happening; when she caught sight of him. Lying on the floor, face down, hands on the back of his head. 

Not responding when she spoke to him, reminded him it wasn’t prison, it was just a coffee shop. Gently trying to coax him to his feet, but he wasn’t hearing her. Not at all. 

So now she’s lying belly down on an absurdly clean floor, cheek on the tiles, fingers running back and forth over his. 

She can hear him breathing. All shallow and cut off, but it’s like he’s afraid to make any noise at all. No, it’s not like that. It is that. It is exactly that.

And suddenly they’re sitting in the closet. Listening to their father stumbling around the house. Cursing them out and cursing their mother out and cursing everything under the sun.

“Do you remember what it was like before Terry taught us to hate?” she watches her finger now, sliding over his. From knuckle to knuckle. Always bloody, always scabbed, “hate ourselves and everyone around us. Hate our lives and our situation. Hate our family, our friends, everyone and anyone who was different.”

At least the stupid alarm stopped.

Maybe she should have called Ian. Sure, like he hasn’t been annoying enough. Sitting out at the patio table drinking a Chai tea so fucking slowly, pretending to enjoy it so he could tip Mandy five bucks and watch Mickey through the window. Overbearing. But, fuck, Mickey apparently needs that right now. Jesus, he needs to go back to work and get out of Mickey’s ass. Or get in Mickey’s ass, however they do things, she doesn’t care to know.

A deep breath, the elephant in the room, the one that’s been in the room since she was twelve years old, “I didn’t think it was real the first time. I thought he was just drunk, had just fallen into the wrong bed, maybe he was just going to pass out there. I could sneak out when he fell asleep,” settling her cheek on the cool tile, pressing her fingers between her brother’s on his skull, “his hands, remember how he’d grab your face? Push your cheeks against your teeth until you could taste blood and you felt like you were going to swallow your own tongue. And your response was wide-eyes. Like it’s just the natural response to that grab. And his face was always so close, you could count his eyebrow hairs. And whatever he threatened, you could barely hear it past all the rushing in your ears. But you knew he meant business.”

His hands are releasing each other, his left turning, letting her right fold into it, “that’s what he did,” she sighs, “that’s always what he was doing. Every single time.”

She listens as his breath shudders, “the hardest part is allowing yourself to feel like a human again. Trusting that you can see yourself in the mirror someday. Instead of that weak pathetic creature you’ve become that can’t or won’t even defend yourself. Fuck, but you know what?” now she watches her hand slip out of his, find his chin and give him a gentle tug to aim his gaze, “you’re still in there Mick. And you’re so much stronger than you think you are. It’s okay to be human again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The supports system consists of: Ian, who knows what it's like to feel subhuman while battling moods. Mandy, who knows what it's like to feel subhuman after repeated rape. And Iggy, who knows what it's like to feel subhuman after the things Terry put them through. Ms Bodnar and her old lady wisdom, Franny and her child's wisdom, and Luna - who, let's face it, might be the strongest support on the planet :) 
> 
> Will it be enough? Is it ever enough for just the support system to want his health? Or does he need to want it to?


	32. One At A Time

One At A Time

 

“I fuckin’ hate this Ms B.”

He kicks a pebble that’s lying in the middle of the sidewalk. Expecting her to remind him not to use that language. Or ask him what he hates. Instead, her bony, knobby fingers tighten their grip in the pit of his elbow and she simply replies, “good.”

Luna’s leash in his right hand, the old lady holding onto his arm and he’s not sure who is supporting whom, but the early Summer breeze has some heat to it and he can nearly feel it on his skin, “good?”

He’s shaky and weak and he hates that. The physical therapist that Ian insisted he see, even though he has no idea how any of them are going to pay for any of this shit, told him he’s behind schedule by a long shot and he fuckin’ hates that. He hates that his body betrayed him and his mind betrayed him and his whole fucking life has gotten this fucking fucked up. And he hates the early Summer sun starting to finger it’s way through the soft blue sky, prying apart the white clouds on the horizon and reaching down the sidewalk to caress his face. And he fucking hates that. 

“Yes Mikhailo. Good. Good that you hate. It means you also love. It means you also enjoy. It means,” her fingers tighten again, “it means you feel.”

—————

“Is that, um, is that okay? I mean, I can probably put it off for another week or so, maybe longer, maybe two weeks, but I’ll have to go back eventually,” his hands are clasped in his lap. 

Mickey can feel his eyes on the side of his face but he’s not looking back. His focus is on the dead leaf. Worn down by Fall’s wind. Broken by Winter’s snow. Disintegrated by Spring’s rain. Now there are green spikes of grass poking through it’s transparent corpse.

Luna drops the ball on his lap. Without looking, he lifts it, sends it across the field. Listens to her feet. All four of them. On the ground, kicking up clods of fresh grass, dirt. He can smell it. 

“So, um, Mandy’s out with the new guy, huh?”

He ain’t bad. Started comin’ in the coffee shop a couple weeks ago. Been there every evening since he laid eyes on her. He sits by himself, reads a book, with pages and shit, and he drinks a cup of cold-pressed coffee, eats some overnight oats for dinner and keeps looking at Mandy when she thinks he ain’t. 

“What’s his name? Trent?”

He nods. The ball lands in his lap again. He tosses it again. And watches her take off. Through the grass. Kicking up mud. His eyes skim over to the leaf again. Dead, brown, rotten, skeleton of something that used to bask in sunshine and sway in the breeze. 

He takes a deep breath, his face turns, eyes land on Ian and he tells him, “I need you to leave.”

A disbelieving smile rises, his eyes darting back and forth between Mickey’s. Waiting for a tell, some sign of a lie, some sign that he’s only pushing him away because Terry still lives in his mind. Some kind of hint that he’s joking or he’s fucking losing his mind again.

He can’t lose it if he never found it.

“What? Why? I…”

“I need you to leave. Go back home. Go back to work. Just…”

‘Leave me alone!’ 

“Just start over,” he feels his eyebrows rise.

Ian’s eyes are still darting back and forth, frantic, “but I… Mick, I thought, you’re doing better. I, I already told you this isn’t charity, I already told you I’m staying… I don’t understand,” his face looks pinched and he blinks. His focus drops to the ground, rapid blinking for a long moment before his head tilts back, he looks skyward. Where it’s starting to darken. Turn into a deep blue of late evening. It’ll be dusk soon. And they’ll walk home in silence. Ian’s disbelieving look will remain on his face. His head will spin and he’ll wonder, wonder why. Wonder why. Why me? Why now? Why don’t you love me? After all I’ve done for you. And you still can’t love me. 

‘You can’t fix me.’

—————

He watches him from the front stoop as he gets in his car on the curb. He hasn’t made eye contact with him since they were sitting on the bench. Maybe an hour ago. Now the yellow glow of the streetlights is silhouetting his frame, shoulders slumped in defeat while he turns the engine. He lingers, for a moment. His eyes on the wheel. Hoping, hoping Mickey will tap on the window. Will walk down the steps and tap on the window. Will change his mind.

I was broken. You broke me. You fixed me.

But you can’t fix me. I have to fix me.

He watches Ian’s hand, rising to the shifting column, his focus on the mirror as he pulls away from the curb. Then he gets to his feet. Hands in his pockets. Every step a measured one. Every step one more, one closer, one more to get there. To get where he needs to be. One foot in front of the other. Slow. Counting every crack in the sidewalk. Breathing every breath of city night air, listening to the evening around him. Recognizing the voices and the music of his neighbors. The sound of the city he spent his life in before he was behind bars. This is big. The city is a big place. Much bigger than a cell. Much bigger than the cinderblock and iron. Barbed wire.  
This city is big. And Mickey is small. And he is alone. The sidewalk he grew up on. The sidewalk where he learned how to play his father’s game. And he learned how to play his city’s game. And he learned how to play Ian’s game. 

One foot in front of the other. He doesn’t have to look up a single time. He knows this route. He doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to feel. But he does, he allows it. Just for now. Just for right now. As he eyes the car parked on the curb. As he turns. As his hands meet the steel of the gate and he pushes it open. As his feet take the steps to the porch. As they rise for the stairs. One at a time. Every step a breath. 

This is not the body that used to take these steps. This is not the boy that used to take these steps. This is something different. This will always be something different than it was. Back then.

He watches the door. He feels his hand free itself from his pocket. He knows it’s rising. He sees it as it meets the wooden door. This is not the hand that used to just reach out and turn the knob. This is not the FUCK hand that used to just take whatever it wanted, or needed even when he didn’t know he needed it. This is not the boy that used to wear that like a promise. 

He hears it when it knocks. He hears it when it knocks again and he feels the motion in his knuckles and he knows the motion. And he knows the voice that hollers, “just a minute.”

He’s known that voice since he was sixteen. 

He feels his breath catch in his chest, the chest that does not belong to the boy that used to just strut up the steps and open the door. His chest that belongs to a broken man. But he isn’t the only broken man. Broken man. 

He takes a deep breath and he feels it fill his lungs. And he watches the face. The one he’s always seen. From the first time to the last time. From the plexiglass to the cold winter air outside The Alibi. From the backroom of the store to his front porch. From the dugout to the bleachers to the club to the day in his kitchen. From the psych ward to the police station to the dugout to the sidewalk to the military prison to the front porch. This front porch. 

This one. In the beginning of summer with the sky darkened and the night cooling and the breeze rising a chill on his neck.

And he wonders, “you doing anything this Saturday?”

“What?”

“You doing anything this Saturday?”

“I, well, I…”

“You free this Saturday?”

“I, yeah, I guess, I…”

“You wanna go out on a date with me?”

“What? A date. Like a real date? Like silverware and…”

“No. Like a ball game,” he can feel his face full of ‘the fuck you talkin’ about with a real date shit?’, “like I ain’t got tickets yet but I can get ‘em, Sox. Saturday.”

“I, but I thought, you said…”

His eyebrows dart up, he can feel it happen.

Ian’s face lights up and he just stands there in the doorway and stares at Mickey for a long ass time before he finally nods, “sure.”

“It’s a 6:15 game. I’ll be here at 5:30.”

Ian nods and Mickey has to turn. He has to turn and walk away before that smile can pull him in. There ain’t no sense in doin’ this if they ain’t gonna start from the start this time. 

—————

Mandy tosses her purse and keys towards the table that Ian put in the entry way to collect things like purses and keys. Think he meant for people to put them in the baskets though.

“Uh oh,” Iggy doesn’t bother lookin’ up at her, “date gone wrong? Or just a zipless fuck?”

“Just a zipless fuck,” Mandy scoffs, “just. God, I miss California for that reason and that reason alone. Well, maybe the zipless fucks and the summer year-round thing. But,” she shrugs, kicking off her shoes, scratching at Luna’s head, “the date was wonderful. I’m seeing him again. I’m not fucking him. Not until at least date number five. He’s legit boyfriend material.”

“How the fuck would you know what that looks like?”

“I didn’t. Not until tonight,” she smiles. Her eyes wandering the parts of the house she can see, “where’s Ian? I need a girlfriend to share all the fluffy details with.”

“Mickey kicked ‘im out.”

“I didn’t…”

“You what?!! After all…” it trails off, she clears her throat, takes a breath, “did something happen?”

“No. Just figure, uh,” he watches his feet rise and plop down on the coffee table, “takin’ him to a Sox game Saturday.”

She’s quiet for a minute. Iggy’s fallen right back into the video game like nothing ever interrupted him in the first place.

“Oh,” she makes her way to the couch, forces herself between her brothers, right smack in the middle even though there’s a damn chair two feet away and Iggy’s grumbled protests are going ignored. Reaching over Mickey to take a drink of his water before her sharp fucking chin meets his shoulder and her hand snakes into his beside his leg, “good plan,” she finally mumbles, “taking it slow.”

He doesn’t respond, not verbally anyway. His middle finger twitches against the back of her hand and he feels her smile where her cheek has come to rest against his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this mean Mickey is starting to want to get better too? Gaining some independence and some confidence, allowing himself to start feeling things again. Starting from the start with Ian and building something, knowing they're down for each other no matter what, but picking up with a clean slate. Will it work? Or is it just another bandaid on an artery?


	33. Craving Reckless Abandon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a date...

Craving Reckless Abandon

 

“Ian, Jesus, you look fine,” Debbie rolls her eyes from where she’s standing in the bathroom doorway watching him, for the umpteenth time, trying to tuck that one piece of hair back where it belongs.

“Fine, like first date with a fling fine? Or fine like, first date with your soulmate fine?” he wonders. Catching her eye in the mirror.

“Oh my god, just fine. You look fine. You look like you and you look fine. And it’s Mickey,” she shrugs, “so…”

“So I already know he’s my soulmate, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t at least try to impress him.”

Debbie’s eyes would be goners if it was true about the whole eyes falling out of your head if you roll them too often, “impress him with yourself. Not your dress and your hair and your,” her hand just sort of waves the length of his body in the air between them, “all of this. Has Mickey ever given a shit about how you look?”

“Um… no,” honestly, “shit. I don’t know Debs, I just…”

“Still feel like you’re just a pretty package wrapping up a pile of shit.”

“Wow, thanks for sugar-coating that.”

“No problem. Now get the fuck out of the bathroom before I just change my tampon with you still in here.”

“Oh, you could have told me that was what you were waiting for.”

Her eyes narrow at him and she starts towards the cabinet under the sink.

“Fine, fine. I’m leaving. You do know there is another bathroom downstairs?”

“Fuck you Ian. You have your things. And I have mine. And one of my things is that this bathroom feels more private for things like taking shits and changing tampons.”

—————

That’s not about to stop him from checking himself out about three more times in the mirror in the downstairs bathroom. Bathroom, pace the kitchen, look out the living room window for a sign of that strut, back to the kitchen, back to the bathroom. All the while Franny is sitting at the kitchen table watching him. Chin propped on her hand and a smile on her face. 

“Fi called,” Liam announces from the stairs, “Carl showed up down in Florida. He’s fine.”

“Good,” back to the window, “that’s good,” nothing yet. Watch, it’s only 5:15. What the fuck is happening to time? Did it stop completely? Is this some kind of trick? Did Mickey break up with him for real and the conversation on the porch was a delusion?

Ticking off his med schedule in his mind, heading to the cabinet for the pill sorter just to double check.

“You’re fine Ian,” Liam perches on the barstool at the end of the counter, “I watched you take your meds this morning.”

“You watch me?”

“No. I saw you take them. I see you take them every morning. Not like I keep track, but I have two eyes.”

“Oh. Right,” his hand makes contact with his brother’s shoulder, a quick pat on his way back to the window. 

Nothing yet. He should have texted Mandy, he knows he should have texted her. He’s been texting with her every day since Mickey kicked him out. Checking in, making sure Mickey’s okay. Has she been lying to him? Trying to protect him? Did Mickey go home and hang himself? 

Fuck. He’s in the bathroom again. This time he’s at least going to pee. 

Damn it, of course that’s when there’s a sharp rap on the door. Of fucking course it is, “wait, I’ll…” he starts.

“I’ll get it!” Franny’s feet are already making their thumping way across the house.

“Shit,” he sighs to himself, watching his stream starting to die back to a trickle.

“Uncle Ian! Uncle Mickey is here!” 

Shithead.

“I mean, your date is here.”

“I’ll be right there,” he looks fucking terrible. He does. His face is all flushed, that damn piece of hair won’t stay where it’s supposed to stay, and fuck, it’s hot in here. 

Deep breath. Deep breath. That hummingbird is frantic again. Deep breath. He kind of wants to puke. And he kind of wants to just go out there, take Mickey in his arms and kiss him hard and deep and never let up. 

Deep breath, push the door open, wipe his palms on his pants and go out there. And fuck. Holy fuck, “hey,” fuck, he’s gorgeous. He needs about twenty more pounds, but fuck. He’s wearing blue. And his hair is perfect, silver and black. And his face, god, his face. His eyes. There is life in his eyes. For the quick moment that they land on Ian’s before they dart away.

“Hey,” he responds over Franny’s incessant chattering.

His hands are in his jeans pockets. His jeans that are worn out, but clean. Button up shirt, blue. Dark blue, light blue and a little bit of purple in the pattern. The sleeves aren’t ripped off yet. Must be the first time wear. But they are rolled up, tucked under all nice and neat and he’s certain that was Mandy’s doing. He can see the edge of his black undershirt and just the very tip of his scar peering out. 

He’s looking at Franny, absorbed in whatever she’s saying that Ian can’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He wants to say it, he wants to say it now and get it over with, skip the game and bring him upstairs instead. But that’s not what Mickey wants. That's not what Mickey needs.

He takes a deep breath when there’s a lull in Franny’s dialogue, “ready?”

Half nod, eyes meeting and holding and fuck, there goes all the breath in Ian’s lungs.

“Have fun, be home before midnight!” Debbie calls from the stairs, much to Franny’s amusement.

“Yeah, okay Mom,” he flips her off behind his back on the way out the door.

His eyes drag over Mickey’s ass and he wants that padding back, that little perfect amount of cushion that always existed on his ass, his perfect ass. He forces his gaze away when Mickey stops at the gate, holding it open, waiting for Ian to walk through first. Classy move, he smiles at him, falling into stride beside each other.

“So, how was…”

“You grow up around here then?” Mickey interrupts.

Ian was going to ask about his week, start from there, but apparently Mickey is starting over. Completely. And that’s just fine, that’s better than fine.

He feels himself smiling as he starts with the easy stuff, the stuff they already know but they’ll pretend not to know. The childhood home, the siblings, growing up Southside, dreaming of getting out, and by the time they’re in the stadium, seated with their chicken sandwiches and ciders. Fuck, it feels good as hell to not have to explain the no alcohol rule on a first date. Not that Ian really had many first dates, but Trevor just never understood it. And his friends, fuck, whatever, doesn’t matter. They all have their own special gender pronouns, but god forbid someone doesn’t want to try the latest craft beer in the newest restaurant in town or the most complex cocktail on the menu with all it’s pomegranate and mint and ginger and licorice root. 

His eyes fall to Mickey, watching him picking at his sandwich. The food, it has been such a slow fucking process. But Ian doesn’t know that, this Ian does not know that. He does not know why Mickey is so thin, he does not know why his fingers are scarred so deeply and he is not going to ask. It would be impolite to ask on a first date. 

Instead, he opens his mouth to ask about his job, but Mickey interrupts again, “ain’t so bad really. You know, the whole not getting out of the Southside, huh? Mean, so we gotta live with a few siblings to keep a roof over our heads, ain’t much different than the bulk of our generation, is it?” his eyes rise, his fingers slide over the napkin on his knee.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Fuck, Ian should have been looking at his face through the glass, even if it hurt, it was still his face, “yeah. I guess.”

“Roommates, parents, siblings. Fuck it, rent’s expensive. Wages suck. Just the way it is. And the Southside ain’t as bad as it used to be.”

“No. Sometimes I miss it though. Everything being a total dump, now it’s a dump next to a fixer upper next to a fixed up next to a dump,” he smiles.

“Yeah. Lot changed while I was in prison,” his eyes linger on Ian’s, admitting without embarrassment of any sort, “I did some stupid shit when I was a kid. A lot of stupid shit. Ended up in prison for a little over nine years for attempted murder. Just got out about a year ago. Still tryin’ to adjust,” his eyes drop now, but not far, only as far as Ian’s lips.

“How’s it going for you? The, uh, adjustment?”

He shrugs, “rough. But I’m figuring it out. You know, I, uh, guess it’s one of those things you need a good support system for,” his eyes dart back up to meet Ian’s, and they stay there.

“I, um, I know what you mean. About support, that is,” he can feel his cheeks flushing. He doesn’t want to scare this guy off, he’s fucking gorgeous, and perfect even with a criminal record. And a first date, but if he’s being honest then, “I was diagnosed bipolar, and the fun kind with psychosis and delusions and all that shit, when I was seventeen. I didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to learn it I guess. I just wanted to be,” his voice trails off but he doesn’t lose the eye contact, “like everyone else. I didn’t want to be married to a system of pills and self care and stability when I was still a kid. It, um, it was rough there for a long time. I had a boyfriend at the time, a really, really great boyfriend, and I put him through the wringer. Bad. He did, fuck, he did a lot for me that no one else would ever have done, ever have put up with. And I just, I don’t know, I was too young maybe, or I was too naive, thought I could handle the diagnosis without the routine. Thought I could beat it. But,” he sighs, “there’s really no beating it. It’s a battle. Every single day. For my entire life. But now that I have the weapons to fight it, it feels better. It feels like it’s containable maybe. Like I can just make it a part of me instead of the whole of me. I don’t have to be like everyone else, I’m not like everyone else. And that’s okay. Maybe better than okay.”

“Jimmy Piersall,” he responds, thumbs his nose, “read about the guy when I was in prison,” shifts his focus, then finds Ian again, “bipolar outfielder back in the 50’s and 60’s. Know the guy?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs, it fucking hurts in his chest that Mickey was reading about bipolar disorder in prison while Ian was, fuck, he clears his throat, “yeah. I consider myself lucky that electroshock therapy isn’t the norm for treating bipolar disorder anymore,” a smile rises.

He nods, falling silent for a moment, eyes lingering. Fuck, they haven’t watched a single moment of this game. Ian hopes the seats were cheap at least, he knows this was a splurge for Mickey. 

“So, what do you do now, for work?”

“I’m a paramedic.”

“Makes sense,” his gaze rises to Ian’s hair and he knows it’s that damn piece that won’t stay put, “you know, for someone who wanted military. Makes sense to go first responder instead.”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

“Probably see some crazy shit, huh?” he thumbs his nose. And Ian knows, not the time to admit his true scariest call.

“Yeah. Some weird shit too. Man, people are, there are some out-there people,” he laughs, “bondage gone wrong. That was a fun one. We responded once with a couple cops to a domestic called in by a neighbor, neighbor could hear a kid yelling for help and then a guy hollering about ‘I’m going to kill you’, but it turned out she had crawled into crawl space playing hide and seek then saw a giant spider and the guy was yelling at the spider,” he laughs and watches Mickey’s face turn into a smile, “was there for three births. I mean, those are gross as hell, but also really cool and pure. And it’s not like TV where the woman is screaming and throwing around threats at everyone that touches her. One woman, she was pretty young and it was her first baby, but she was so quiet the whole time I thought she was mute. Then when we set the baby on her chest she smiled at her, and said, ‘I know you, do you know me?’,” he sighs, “I don’t know, it’s not all glamour or laughs or glory either. A lot of stuff is just wellbeing calls, a lot of elderly people with long term health problems, some frequent fliers, some stuff is, well, I’m glad I grew up Southside for a lot of the shit.”

Fuck, he wants to reach out, he wants to lay his hand over Mickey’s on the armrest, he wants to run his fingers over every scar and press them between, link them together, and never let go. 

“What about you? What do you do for work?”

“Ain’t much choice for an ex-con, but some lady who runs a coffee shop I guess decided I wasn’t the worst choice on her list of applicants. So I clean the place more often than anything else. Do a lot of the preparation type shit. But it ain’t bad. Don’t gotta deal with people. Don’t gotta talk to anyone other than the other employees. Kinda just becomes like routine. Guess not much different than prison in that regard, it’s all just routine. I guess. It ain’t bad. Keeps my PO off my ass.”

—————

The game ended way too fucking fast. And if anyone asked him for a play by play, he’d have no fucking idea, the only reason he knows the Sox won, is because of the noise level in the stadium.

The walk home went way too fucking fast. And now they’re standing at the gate and fuck, Ian wants to ask him to come in. So badly. But he can’t. They’re doing this right, they’re taking it slow. They’re actually courting. And getting to know each other instead of just fucking.

He watches Mickey’s face in the glow of the streetlight, the eery yellow tinge it casts on him, even that can’t distract from his beauty.

“So, uh, you work a lot of weekends, or how’s that work?”

“Usually it’s four ten hour shifts a week, but the days vary from week to week, so it’s kind of a crapshoot.”

“Oh.”

“You? Work weekends mostly?”

“Yeah. Evenings, weekends.”

“How about I get your number, and we do lunch soon? I go back to work Monday, so how about Friday?”

“Yeah, okay,” he shrugs. But doesn’t offer his number, or his phone.

“Um, number?”

“Oh. Yeah, ‘bout that. I, uh, don’t got a phone.”

Shit. He doesn’t. Ian’s been making all his appointments and he’s been writing his number and Mandy’s number on all his forms. He never even considered, wow, so a lot has changed in ten years technology-wise since Mickey was locked up. And holy shit, fuck, that’s just another thing he’ll have to learn. 

“Is it weird that people go out to eat together and they never talk to each other? Like they just spend the whole time on their phones. Why are they together then?”

“Hey Mick?” 

“Yeah,” his thumb is rising, it’s aimed for his nose, Ian knows that. 

He takes a hold of his hand midair, giving it a tight squeeze, “thank you for this evening. It was really wonderful. And, I think I know your sister. I’ve got her number. So, I’ll get a hold of you that way, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t see why the fuck not.”

Ian’s heart lodges itself in his throat when he looks at his expression. And he realizes he’s been making expressions all night. All night. He can’t help it when a smile rises while he watches Mickey’s face. He doesn’t want to turn away. Doesn’t want to end this night. Doesn’t want to wait five days to see him again. 

But he has to, “thank you,” his hand releases and lands on the gate, pushing it open feels like it weighs seven thousand pounds, and taking the steps back, backing away from him feels like he’s walking through molasses. Mickey pulls the gate shut, staying firmly on the outside of it, and waiting. Holy fuck, he’s being a gentleman. He’s going to stand there and wait until Ian is safely inside the house. So he probably shouldn’t make him stand there all night.

“You gonna make me stand here all night?”

Fuck, he’s grinning when he turns to head up the steps and he doesn’t stifle the bounce in his stride. He has no reason to, “night Mick,” calling from the doorway when he gets there.

His hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s turning away from the gate already, a mumbled, “night firecrotch,” sends Ian’s heart hurling towards his ribcage with reckless abandon. It takes every ounce of self-control in his body to stay put, to not run down the sidewalk after him and hurl his entire body at Mickey’s with the reckless abandon that his heart is craving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is 'aww' appropriate? I feel it.


	34. Keeping

Keeping

 

‘Don’t forget he has a dr appt on Wed’

Mandy scoffs at her phone, “I’m going to walk down there and strangle him myself if he doesn’t leave me the fuck alone,” she warns Mickey. He’s sitting on the couch, giving Luna, that traitor, the belly scratching that has her rolling on her back on the floor with the grunts and groans that used to be only reserved for Mandy, “Wednesday. 10:00 with your doctor.”

“I know.”

“Oh, do you now? Fuck,” she sighs, tossing her phone at him, “read these, go ahead scroll back for like a fucking mile, he is so fucking obnoxious.”

The phone stays untouched on the cushion beside him. 

“Jesus Christ Mick, it’s not a fucking bomb. It’s a smart phone. They existed before you left planet Earth. They just looked different.”

“Don’t fuckin’ want one. Got no need to check my fuckin’ social media or email or fuckever every thirty fuckin’ seconds. Between you and Iggy, I ain’t got a reason to add another phone to the house bills.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sick of being your personal assistant.”

“No one asked you to.”

Her hand finds her hip instead of fisting up and landing on his arm, “no? What the fuck would you have done last week when your PT appointment got cancelled? You wouldn’t have known until you got there.”

He shrugs, “yeah. Then I would have known when I got there. Ain’t like I got much else to do. Big fuckin’ deal, I would have walked down there, rescheduled the appointment, and walked back. Ain’t no skin off my back.”

“You can’t spare any,” she throws at him and then wishes she hadn’t, “shit. Sorry.”

He shrugs, going at the belly scratching like nothing happened. 

“Shit,” she takes the steps over, plops herself down next to him, “sorry, I don’t know…”

“Ain’t gonna act normal ‘less you treat me normal. Fuck your sorry.”

“Fuck you,” exits her mouth before she can stop it.

But he smiles. Like a real, almost real, sort of unrestrained smile. A smile. His focus remaining on the dog, but his elbow meets her side.

“Alright, you going to tell me about how lunch went then?”

“No, ain’t gotta tell you everything.”

“Oh okay. I have to sit through your doctor’s appointments while he runs through all your vitals and your diet and exercise every fucking month, and go over your blood tests and thank fucking fuck you don’t have AIDS or Hepatitis by now, and maybe by date four you should get a swab just so you know, just in case you want to get laid by then; but I don’t get to know how the date went?”

“Wasn’t a date. It was lunch.”

“It was a date.”

“Lunch.”

“Lunch date, fuck. What’d you eat?”

“A fucking sandwich. Didn’t you just say you didn’t give a fuck about my diet?”

“That’s not what I said. That’s,” she sighs, “sort of what I said.”

“Yah. We gotta go to work in like five minutes.”

“Four actually.”

“Good. Gives me enough time to leave a piss, get changed, and not have to talk to you.”

Her middle finger responds as he gets off the couch. He’s moving less gingerly. But she has to figure out a way to get some meat back on his bones, his belt is probably two notches tighter still than it has any business being. 

—————

She tries not to make it obvious, but she watches him on the walk to work. The way the sun is playing patterns on his face, cheeks sunken but regaining color. The same amount of color Mickey has ever had. Expression something like wistful. Lips unmoving, but for the first time in a long time the silence is easy. 

When he finally gets tired of her appraisal of him, he wonders quietly, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Snagging his hand when it swings by her own. And keeping it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siblings are handy because they'll say the shit to you that no one else can get away with, and once the people close to you start treating you like you're normal it's easier to act normal.


	35. Still Beating Heart

Still Beating Heart

 

Ian takes a deep breath, a failed attempt to calm the racing in his mind. Mickey just made a noise, one Ian won’t dare hang a name on, but one he can decipher. He draws away from his warm lips, falling into an embrace. Mickey’s back against the wall of their front porch where they’ve been making out for an eternity or maybe only a fleeting moment, Ian’s not certain. 

He wraps his arms tight around his bony frame, a dusty old photograph of a memory rising in his mind. The psych ward. Or maybe the police station. Maybe both. A deep breath that tingles through every nerve that had just been brought back to life by the feel of this man’s lips, his tongue and his breath. But now, a candle flame slowly being blown out, turning to nothing more than smokey entrails of something that used to be. Brilliant, bright, warm. 

The embrace is as familiar as it is foreign. It’s tight, too tight and Ian knows that, but he can’t release. Hiding his face in Mickey’s neck and hearing over the rushing in his own ears the sound of his ragged cry, hitching off in his throat, his hands gripping so tightly to Ian’s t-shirt.

Maybe if he holds on tight enough, maybe if he crushes him against his chest, maybe if he stands here for the rest of this life. Maybe then. And only then, maybe he’ll be able to climb inside his pores and spread himself thin along the ragged scars all over his flesh. The first, the first of so many caused by love. The one in his thigh. Only the first. All the way to the last. The last, his chest, right above his still beating heart. Broken, but still beating. 

Another deep breath. Another one. Maybe this will be the one. Turning his face into Mickey’s warm delicate flesh. That thin layer of translucent flesh over his pulse point. Pressing his lips against it and holding, feeling every beat of his heart against his kiss. 

Date six. Six dates, four weeks. Four weeks of getting to know this man in ways he never knew him before. Talking. And silence. The ball game, lunch, dinner, a walk on the beach, the batting cages, and tonight it was nothing more than a walk in the park and a date on a park bench. Watching the mid-summer sun layering the surface of Lake Michigan in gold, reflecting the sparkles into the sky until the sun faded into an orange orb and sunk into the blue-green expanse of water. The sun throwing pinks and purples into the sky until it couldn’t hold it’s own against the stars and moon. 

Six dates and a kiss. A kiss that became more than a kiss. A kiss that started as nothing more than an innocent good night gesture. A kiss that turned into parted lips. Gently at first. Parted lips becoming tip of the tongue. Becoming an exploration of every single surface of his mouth. And it was everything, it was everything the same and everything different. Everything he knew and nothing he’d felt in any other place in this lifetime. 

His hands were on Mickey’s back. Unable to move them, unwilling to take them back. His back, where still every single vertebrae is way too fucking close to the surface. His hands didn’t move, his hands didn’t go too far. His kiss, the kiss, it pressed too long. And it allowed them to rise. It allowed the memories to rise.

Another deep breath. 

‘Can I come back with him?’

“Can I stay?”

His head shakes.

“Okay. That’s okay. Just,” fuck, he’d stand here all night and hold him if he let him, but he won’t let him, “tomorrow? Can I come by tomorrow?”

A nod. 

It is against every single fiber of his being to release, but he does. He releases. And Mickey’s thumb rises to his nose, his eyes linger on his fingers as he presses the door open and disappears. 

Every single fucking dusty old photograph of a memory is rushing for space in his eyes, in his ears, at the tips of his fingers. And he can’t sort through them, he can’t push them away, and he can’t bear the weight. His butt lands on the top step, eyes lingering on the street. Forcing it back, forcing himself to focus on the blacktop in the shadows of a city night and the halo of a streelight. On every single oil stain, every tire mark, every rock, every shade of black. Forcing himself to breathe, to just breathe. To stop the spinning, just stop, just stop, just stop it. Until he can get home. Until he can damper them with a sedative, until he can quiet them with a night of rest, until he can blur them into nothing more than background din in a crowded dimly lit room. 

His focus shifts when a car drives by. Following the taillights as they disappear down the street. Following the line of parked cars all the way back to the blacktop in front of him. Over to the cement curb and the grass. 

He didn’t hear the door. Her body is warm against his side. She smells like weed, she sighs when she sits, her head meets his neck, forehead lodged between his jaw and his shoulder, “I won’t offer because I know you aren’t supposed to on your meds, but if you want it, it’s there.”

He shakes his head, his arm finds it’s way around her shoulders without him having to tell it a damn thing. 

“Six dates and you’re still not getting any?”

“No,” his voice is shaky and his insides are quivering. Closing his eyes and forcing his focus, forcing it away from the pain, away from the pain he’s caused that man through the years, “no. You? Where do you and Trent stand?”

Her laugh is breathy and amused, “I don’t know. Eight dates now. No fucking yet,” she’s melting into his side, keeping him anchored right here, “I don’t know. Maybe we Milkoviches have started to lose our armor. Maybe we’ve gotten old. Maybe we can’t pretend anymore.”

“Pretend?”

“That it doesn’t matter. That sex and love don’t matter. That the one thing we’re seeking is the physical touch, the gentle touch of someone who loves us,” she sighs again and he finds himself turning to kiss the top of her head, “fuck, it was so much easier before. When sex was just a band aid, a cheap way to get a thrill, find some passion, some pleasure. But it didn’t have to be more than sex. It didn’t have to involve all the other shit. Like feeling. Feeling sucks.”

—————

“Come on, I want to take you somewhere.”

“The fuck Gallagher, I gotta go to work.”

“Not ’til two.”

His eyes narrow, wanting to accuse Ian of stalking him. Standing in the doorway, keeping it mostly closed, the late morning sun is lighting his face in the most horrendously gorgeous way Ian has ever seen. He feels a smile spread across his face, “trust me?”

Cheeks sucked into his teeth as he eyes him, thumb rising to nudge his nose and an exhale, “fine. Let me get a sweatshirt.”

“It’s hot out, don’t need one. Come on, it’s not far.”

“The fuck we goin’?”

“Trust Mick. Just trust me.”

“Fuck. Fine,” he steps out apprehensively like half of him is wanting to stay behind. Wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. His hands find his pockets immediately and Ian misses the fuck out of that old swagger. Falling into step silently, the sun is hot, the air is hot and the walk is short. 

The t-shirt still has it’s sleeves. And Ian realizes so suddenly, and like someone just laid a hot iron on the back of his skull, just why. Why now, now that Mickey is thirty years old, now, his sleeves would stop being ripped off. That galaxy of freckles that used to exist on his shoulder, on his right shoulder, that empty space, the canvas that is no longer a galaxy but now a crater. Before he can tell it not to, his hand rises and lands on that old galaxy that Ian still sees when he closes his eyes. That his lips still linger over in his mind while his shin waits for that kick.

They’re at the fence and Mickey is turning to look at him, nothing on his face, but his eyes, his eyes are telling all the same, ‘don’t’, that his voice used to tell him. Used to beg him. Used to plead upon deaf ears. 

“It’s okay. We’re just here to talk,” he tilts his head towards the fence. But Mickey doesn’t take the bait, so Ian climbs first. Dropping to the dugout and waiting. 

He’s unmoving in the mix of sun and shade, sun fingering it’s way through his black and silver hair. Shade leaving darkness in the hollows of his cheeks.

“Okay. I’ll talk. You stand there,” he leans against the fence, hands in his pockets, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of freshly cut and watered grass, “the first time I fell in love with you. Hot as balls summer night. Your smile. Mick,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the fence, “the way you looked at me. Back then,” his hands slide into his pockets, “I kissed your shoulder. And you kicked me in the shin,” his face twists into a smile but only briefly, a deep breath that does nothing to calm the rising emotions, “I ruined that. All of that. But I never stopped falling in love with you. Every single time you smiled at me. Every single time you said my name. Every single time you ran your fingers though my hair,” his eyes open to the sight of the green grass, droplets of water still clinging to each blade, catching sun and keeping it, “I, um, fuck, I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to feel normal. I didn’t want a nurse-maid, I wanted you to be normal. And I didn’t think we could be that way. I didn’t think we could be anything normal if I,” his voice chokes off. 

A deep breath, blinking rapidly to force back the tears he refuses to cry for the boy that he was. The boy that had dreams of West Point. And a future outside of the Southside.

“I didn’t think we could be normal. And I didn’t think we could be happy. But I didn’t know how to free you. I was selfish and stupid and…”

“Young,” his voice is gravel underfoot on a hot as balls summer night, “too young.”

“And you were…”

“I taught myself to grow old. And I grew old when I was young. I had to.”

It burns down Ian’s throat like boiling hot liquid and his breath quakes, “I know. And I should have trusted you to get us through it all. I should have, fuck, I should have let you love me the way you wanted to. Instead of forcing you to…”

“Fuck off.”

Now his head snaps towards his voice, watching as he makes his way over the fence, his scarred hands looped lazily through the galvanized steel as he drops beside Ian. His back against the fence, beside him. Arm so close he can feel the heat. Reaching out to scorch his soul back into this life. 

“Didn’t force me to do nothin’.”

“Yeah I did. I knew you loved me. And I knew you’d do anything for me. Including…”

“I don’t fuckin’ care. Ian. None of that,” his teeth start making coded promises to his bottom lip while his eyes land on Ian’s and bring every ounce of blood in his body boiling to the surface, “none of that shit matters.”

“But it…”

“It ain’t us. Not anymore. That ain’t us,” his brows are up like a threat, or a promise. His eyes are locked onto Ian’s and he can see every single hue of blue in his irises.

He listens to a crow making a racket in the outfield. He listens to the breeze rustling the leaves along the roof of the dugout. He smells the green grass and the water and the scent of Mickey’s body nearby. He watches his eyes, reflecting all the promises of a summer sky. And he feels himself smile, “so there is an ‘us’?”

“Fuck you,” cheeks against his teeth, hand landing on Ian’s chest to shove him away. 

He takes it, he takes the shove then he takes the hand. Tracing the hand up the wrist and tugging. Tugging gently and not letting his smile fade, not letting the eye contact drop, not letting this moment pass, pulling him near but not diving. Not dipping, not yet. Not until that calm smile rises on that gorgeous face and his head cocks, “c’mere.”

Holding back the wave of passion that would crush that shore. Instead, sliding a hand through his hair, tilting gently to get full sight of his beautiful face, drinking in every single feature until Mickey’s hand rises and slides across Ian’s jaw. Then he dips. He dips slowly, gently, he dips until he’s fallen in but he doesn’t allow himself to drown that man. Not yet. Not yet. It’s too soon. 

Pulling back, but lingering at his forehead. Fingering strands of hair, breathing his breath, free hand slipping down his shoulder, landing on his chest, staying there. Feeling every single flutter of his heart, his beautiful heart, against his ribs.

“Still beating,” Mickey assures him quietly, his fingers pressing dents into the back of Ian’s head until he gives in and leans towards his lips again. Captured quickly and completely. Knowing there’s no chance in fucking hell now he’ll ever be set free. And that’s just fucking fine. That’s more than fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to sound really full of myself - The Writer, Still Beating Heart - so I've been dropping the pseud into works from the start like little footprints so that even if I orphan works like I have urges to do, I'll still be in there somewhere. At the point that I was writing this one I was planning on it being my farewell to Gallavich work, so I put a big old footprint in it in case my anxiety and insecurity won and I kicked it to the curb. You guys are being really wonderful in coming along on this one, it feels really close to the heart, and I feel so fucking naked it's insane, especially after that little journal entry in the beginning. I must be feeling really f-ing brave (or wearing Mickey's skin) this week to be able to post this without freaking out. Thank you, friends, so much for putting up with me :)
> 
> Alright, two more (hopefully) for today and then I'll leave you for the weekend.


	36. The Man In The Mirror

The Man In The Mirror

 

It’s a strange thing to look in a mirror and not recognize the man looking back. Maybe strange for everyone else, that is. But Mickey? He’s been doing it all his fucking life. 

He watches his finger rise, out of the corner of his eye, he watches it rise and trace through the steam lingering on the smooth glass surface. He watches it trace first his jawline. Ears, forehead, hair. His eyes linger on the strands of grey in the black. It wasn’t so long ago he could count each individual strand. They were separate, they were a different man, a different life. 

His finger draws the outline of his eyes, his brows. Nose, clear as day nostrils flaring while the silent tears fell unnoticed by his own eyes. Lips. The lips that Ian started a fire against. He can still feel him lingering there. As though he’s slid into the cracks in his paper thin flesh and has begun to live there. Under his skin. 

Chin, his finger traces his chin as it trembles and he bites down hard on his lower lip. Hard enough to taste the familiar metal of blood. Following his neck, collarbone, shoulders. The steam is dissipating, swirling through the air in the bathroom in the house he grew up in. The house he’s doomed to live out his days in. The house where he tried to take his final breath and kill his last fear. 

His eyes drop but his hand doesn’t. Remaining on the glass of the mirror. The smooth, damp surface of his reflection. While the fog lifts around him and his eyes take in the scar. The length of his sternum. The dots from the staples. His finger moves from the mirror to his body. His overheated flesh from taking a shower that’s just a little too hot, just a little too much sting, leaving his skin just a little too pink. Trailing the indentation with the tip of his finger, the one that used to contain the K. From the top of his sternum to the bottom. Then moving, K on the dots on the left, C on the line in the center, U on the dots on the right as they crawl up his chest. Feeling with the pads of his fucked up fingers, feeling every fucked up instance of skin on his chest. Until he gets to the end. 

His reflection looks bored when his fingers move to the bullet hole. Directly over his heart. Directly over his heart. That stupid fucking organ that he never could convince to fall out of love once he fell into it. That stupid fucking organ that just kept beating, kept pumping blood, kept making him stay alive, stay here, stay here, stay with me. 

Stay with me. 

He pulls his boxers up his legs, pushes the bathroom door open, watches the steam swirl out the door and into the hallway. It follows him like a ghost. A ghost of all the things they won’t talk about, can’t talk about, won’t talk about. The things that will always be unspoken but never unthought. Never undone. 

He watches his fingertips land on the wooden door of his bedroom. Push it open. It makes a whooshing noise when it skims the carpet. His skin is damp. Overheated. The carpet is soft, worn out, beneath his feet. The room is cool with the aid of a box fan shoved in the window spinning on high. The curtains flapping gently in the breeze. His eyes land first on the legs spread languidly on top of the sheet. Bedspread bunched up and tossed to the foot of the bed. The sheets are white. The man is mostly orange. His eyes travel the length of his strong legs, skinny calves, the bones that are always walking into the edge of the coffee table when he’s too busy watching Mickey to make sure he hasn’t shot himself again, to be bothered with watching where he’s walking. The knees that Mickey got used to sleeping with jabbed against the backs of his thighs. Bony and round. Thighs, the wiry orange hair of his legs until they meet the green and white stripes of his boxers. Skimming over that part, he’s not ready for that part, he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready for that part. 

Curly orange trail of hair leading to his belly button, the indentation of his ab muscles, the hair on his chest that never used to be there, it was never there on the chest of the boy that Mickey had fallen in love with. In a different life maybe. 

“Hey,” he watches it move his Adam’s Apple, and his eyes get stuck there. Even though he knows that his hand is rising, reaching across his body with his phone, with whatever article he was reading tonight being clicked off to darkness, and set on the side table. And now he knows his hand is reaching across the bed. Across to MIckey’s side, to pull back the sheet. Knowing, knowing that Mickey still gets cold. Even in the heat of the city’s August nights. 

He sucked his dick the other night. The first time he invited him in to stay. He sucked his dick. And he allowed himself to watch, to watch Ian’s face right after his orgasm had made it’s way down Mickey’s throat. He watched his face in the clutches of pleasure. And he allowed himself to feel that softness, that overwhelming softness that tingles through his every raw nerve when he sees that expression on that face. 

And Ian sucked his dick. And he watched. He allowed himself to watch. Every hue of red and orange on his head. The way Mickey’s fingers look now, now. The way they look now resting in that fire. They look the way they should, after being scorched by that fire so many times. But he allowed himself to feel. To feel it. To keep his eyes open and feel it. 

Promising himself it was only for one night. It was only for that night. That by morning he’d not feel it. He’d not feel it wrapped around his back, curled into his legs, breathing against his neck. He’d not feel it there in the pit of his stomach all day. He’d not feel it fluttering in his chest and tingling in his hands. He promised himself he’d not feel it. 

Just another lie. Another lie he’s been telling himself for so fucking long. But never believing it. He’s never believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry, that was not actually a Micheal Jackson reference in the chapter title, it just seemed like an appropriate title for this one)


	37. Rusty And Worn

Rusty And Worn

 

“I hated you,” as soon as it whispers past his lips, he looks like he wishes he could take it back. But his fingers don’t stop their travels over Ian’s face. He’s hot, sticky from the overly warm shower that Ian knows he took, purposely cranking up the heat and he should turn down the hot water heater, but he knows Mickey will just turn it back up and it’ll be an unspoken battle among a million unspoken battles between them. He’s perched on Ian’s lap, knees bent beside his thighs. He didn’t say a word, just sat down and started tracing his face, every single feature one by one. His eyes staying, right there, on Ian’s eyes. 

“Good,” his hands are on Mickey’s back. Right at the edge of his ribcage. Not too high, not too low. 

His head shakes, barely detectably, eyes glossy, cheeks pink, “I dreamed I killed you.”

“Good.”

Another head shake, “you were sick.”

“And still me.”

“But it wasn’t you that did those things.”

“Yes it was. You still see that sometimes, don’t you?”

Eye contact remaining, finger dipped into the cleft of his chin, “maybe.”

Ian’s hand rises now, his palm skimming the surface of scarred flesh that used to contain his name. Back and forth over it, like he can magically erase it all, “I don’t blame you for wanting to kill me.”

“Dreaming.”

“Dreaming of killing me. And you had every right to hate me.”

“But I couldn’t,” now his lip trembles, teeth clamping it tight. His weight shifts and Ian drops his hands, thinking he’ll get up now. Instead, his legs wrap around Ian’s hips and his butt lands squarely on Ian’s thighs. Hand moves from his chin to his jawline. Maybe he’s trying to memorize with every sense instead of just sight, “I thought, um, back when…” trailing off, clearing his throat, blinking hard, “New Orleans. I wanted to take you to New Orleans.”

“New Orleans?” his hands find Mickey’s hips. 

Nod, “the whole sparkly shorts, and fucking hideous make-up. That bullshit that dudes paid you to be. That wasn’t the you that I loved. But it just, Mardi Gras, you know. Made me think, a place like that, a place where no one cares. No one cares if you’re pretending all the time. And maybe a place like that, you don’t have to pretend.”

Their faces are exactly level with one another. Ian’s hands have found his back again, this time moving slowly, gently up and down. Up and down. It’s like playing a child’s xylophone on his ribs.

“I saw a picture once of Lake Pontchartrain.”

And that’s all. 

He sits there. Watching. Like he’s trying to read every single one of Ian’s thoughts through the watery surface of his eyes. 

“Did you ever think about suicide?” it’s so quiet that Ian would be convinced he hadn’t asked, except that he saw his lips move.

Hesitating, wanting to lie, wanting to tell him that he’s not alone, that he wanted it too, that he wanted to end it all too, that he knew exactly what the depth of that particular abyss looked like, but he can’t lie to those eyes, “no,” a whispered sigh, hand rising now to run fingers through his hair, “no. I never did. Because of you. Because I heard you, at night, and sometimes in the day, lying beside me, just keeping me company. Not expecting a damn thing from me, knowing somehow without me speaking that it was just your presence that was keeping me in my skin, in my head, reminding me of who I was and that you loved me regardless,” he draws Mickey’s face near now, needing suddenly to breathe him, to taste his skin in the thin layer of air between them, “I wish I had been that for you. Fuck, if I could do it differently, there are…”

“Don’t,” it’s firm. 

He draws a sharp breath, hand cradling the back of Mickey’s head to keep him there. And he’s not resisting the affection, the gentle touch, the intimate nature. It’s only the words he can’t bear to hear, “okay. But, Mick, just know that it doesn’t make you weak. None of that makes you weak. Feeling that way.”

His face shifts and Ian releases. Only to have him burrow his way into Ian’s neck. His hands are resting on his shoulder-blades, nose against his pulse. Ian’s hands slide down his back, remaining on his lower back and he remembers the one time they fucked like this. Once. In the lull between storms, there was a time, one time that they loved like this. And it was slow and it was passionate and it was beautiful and it was the most tender thing Ian had ever felt and the most tender thing Mickey had ever allowed. And he wonders, about what Mandy said about needing the affection and not the sex, about needing the love and not the physicality but never admitting it. 

The armor is rusty and worn and Ian has no desire to polish it. He wants to rip the rest of it off. And make sure that Mickey never needs to put it on again. Because he has nothing to fear from love. Not anymore. Not ever again. 

“You’re the only dream I ever had.”

His arms instinctively tighten around his body, knowing that. He knew that about Mickey. Mickey’s only dreams were nightmares. And Mickey’s only dream turned into a nightmare soon enough, “I love you,” turning his face into Mickey’s, into the side of his head, and taking a deep breath, “I love you,” one hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip and not releasing any time soon, “I love you.”

And if he could make any promise in this world, if there is any promise he could ever keep, it would be this: he will never become the nightmare again. 

—————

“Is that okay?” 

He nods, but when Ian’s hand slides across the surface of his chest, his breath catches. And he knows the nod is a bluff. 

“Okay,” he leans into the back of his neck until his nose crunches against the knobs of his spine, then pulls back just a little. Lodging the pillow between his dick and Mickey’s butt before he wraps his arms around him. He wants to chastise him for bluffing. He wants to tell him he can’t read his mind. And he can’t do this, he can’t touch him and hold him without knowing where exactly his comfort level is. But he can’t. He can’t tell him that bullshit, because it’s bullshit. Ian knows exactly where Mickey’s comfort level is and he knows exactly by the silent nods and the cut off breath where that line remains. He won’t cross it. He won’t cross it no matter how many times Mickey pretends it’s okay, pretends it’s okay in his head and he’s okay with being touched even though his head has brought him to places his body didn’t want to go. 

He knows Mickey’s eyes are open. He knows his gaze has landed on the cupcake he didn’t eat. The cupcake for his thirty-second that he made everyone swear they’d ignore. So they ignored it. Other than requesting the day off work. Making his favorite meal for dinner. And baking cupcakes. And inviting the Gallaghers over for dinner. The remaining Gallaghers. Franny insisted on making him a card and blowing up some balloons. But other than that, they ignored it. 

They ignored it, other than, “happy birthday Mick,” against his bare skin, “I love you.”

—————

“What if,” his breath shakes, “what if I can’t ever…” it trails off.

Ian’s hand slides through his hair and his forehead meets his in the dimness of the bedroom lamp. The late summer breeze blowing heat through the open window, lifting the hem of the curtain and sending it sailing across the room, “thirty two years old Mick,” and he doesn’t have to say the rest. He doesn’t have to say that if it takes the next ten years to undo the last ten years, then that’s just fine with Ian. If it takes ten years of respecting his body without fucking him, if it takes ten years of kissing and holding, touching, sucking, leaving a trail of damp lip prints on every single surface of his perfect flesh, if it takes ten years of lying in bed just talking, if it takes ten years of only looking, only watching; then Ian will wait. 

—————

Ian wakes with a layer of panic sweat on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around Mickey, but it’s wrong. It’s wrong, Mickey is facing him and he’s talking to him. He can’t hear him over the panic rushing in his ears and he can barely see him over the blur in his eyes, “fuck. I was too late,” shakes out of his lips, “I got here too late.”

His hand, warm and gentle, his loving hand is resting on Ian’s cheek. He can feel that, he can feel his knee lodged between his own. He can feel his breath trailing across his cheek. As he blinks, those eyes start clearing in the darkness. His thumb moves from the corner of Ian’s mouth to the edge of his jaw and back. 

“I was too late,” he hears himself repeat, “and I lost you.”

This time when the thumb moves it tracks a tear across his skin. A tear that he can feel drying in the night. The nights that have turned cooler with the first hint of Autumn on the horizon. 

His eyes close themselves on contact. The contact of lips on lips. Delicate, like butterfly wings against him. And Ian wonders how it’s possible that Mickey knows delicacy. That he knows tenderness. That he knows sweetness. After the life he’s led.

His lips part and Ian is drawn in immediately. Pulling his body as close as he can. Locking into place like they’ve always been part of a puzzle, only whole when grooved together. He rolls to his back, taking Mickey with him. Letting him settle on his chest, stomach to stomach. His hands traveling his back and taking note of those few pounds he’s put back on. Ten more to target weight. Twenty more to Ian’s approved weight. 

He parts his legs, inviting Mickey to settle between them, bending his knees and flattering the rest of his body beneath him. The kisses don’t stop. They only deepen. The hands become more frantic and start chasing the stars. Chasing the release, but when Ian’s hands slide under Mickey’s boxers, he hears that catch in his breath and they draw back out, only to track around his hips and try the front. No hitch this time. 

But Ian doesn’t want to stay on the surface right now. He wants to dive in, swim to the bottom until his lungs are ready to explode only to find the surface and dive back under again. His hands are working at his own boxers, sliding Mickey’s the rest of the way off, and locking his legs around Mickey’s hips. 

His hand is taking hold of Mick’s, drawing it to his lips as the kiss breaks. Kissing every scar and turning it to kiss every callous and every swirled fingertip before he sucks them into his mouth. Wetting them with as much spit as he can muster, locking fingers to steer that hand to his ass. Seizing Mickey’s lips when he face is close enough. He hesitates, but Ian knows it’s not for the act, it’s not for the places his memories are taking him; it’s for the role reversal. And Mickey’s not sure how he feels about that, even though he’ll not voice it. Not now. 

Lips still locked, Ian nods, giving him the nudge to start the warm up. Break the ice this way, have the intimacy, have the physicality without the prison memories finding a way into his closed lids. 

Ian’s done this before. Plenty of times. Years of flip fucking with Trevor. 

But it’s never been like this. Mickey’s hesitation is endearing, his careful prodding turning into easy strokes the more Ian’s body conveys his pleasure level. His lips don’t go anywhere. They stay right here, right against Ian’s when he turns his hips, keeping his shoulders flat on the bed, giving Mickey the position with the ease of access he needs and the intimacy he’d never admit to craving. The kisses remain even when the breathing turns ragged and the impossibility of anything more than breathing into each other’s open mouths starts happening. Forehead to forehead, measured and careful thrusts. 

Ian’s not certain if he’s dying or being reborn as waves of tingles start zapping through his every nerve. And Mickey’s hands seem to draw every single drop of passion from his soul. He feels so fucking high off the ground that he’ll never come back down. 

Maybe it was two minutes, maybe it was two hours but it’s too soon when Mickey’s head falls to Ian’s chest. Exhausted and stripped of another layer of armor. But that’s okay. That’s okay, he doesn’t need that anymore. 

Ian’s hands slide through his hair, feeling his breath traveling in bursts across his sweat glazed skin. Waiting, waiting until it evens out and until the tingles have receded, the wave has slowly crawled back into the ocean before he starts shifting them. Whatever pair of boxers is closest becomes the sacrificial rag, and his lips won’t stop chasing Mickey’s as he’s wiping them up blindly, his hands releasing the offending clothing item towards the hamper in the corner before they find the handles of that man’s jaw. Sitting now, both of them, in the center of the bed. Creating their own cocoon, their own safety net, their own shield of armor that can encase them both this time. 

His lips don’t stop chasing, his hands don’t stop gripping until his entire fucking body is so physically fucking exhausted there’s no way to hold himself up anymore. When he flops, he takes Mickey with him. Not stifling the giddy feeling that’s remaining in his chest. Not loosening his grip on Mickey’s body, and he certainly is not going to release the grip he has on his soul. This time, this round, knowing that he can’t afford to loosen that grip. Not now, not ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reaching all the way back to chapter one in Mickey's dream sequence of killing Ian. 
> 
> So I've cited a couple musical references, and a major song that I identify with as a writer is Parker Millsap's 'At the Bar (Emerald City Blues)':  
> "I've a weakness for waltzes, I'm a sucker for sad songs  
> But it ain't my fault, it's the way I've become  
> Don't get me wrong, I'm as happy as the daytime is long  
> But in a melancholy melody, that's the place I belong."
> 
> Sure, a nice happy little piece is fun every now and again, and sometimes the plain old sad ones are great, but melancholy is where the strength in writing comes across. 
> 
> Clearly, it's going to take more than that to heal Mickey sexually, but it's a start. We're getting there. Bit by bit.
> 
> This is where I'm going to leave you for the weekend, there are three more that are written already and hopefully I'll have the courage to post them early next week. I think now that I've posted to this point I have an idea of how I want to wrap this up, but keep the comments coming because you never know what will come of it :)


	38. Pierced Through The Heart

Pierced Through The Heart

 

Mickey sits on the park bench watching the early Autumn clouds painting the sky with splotches of grey. He feels Luna’s warm body leaning against his leg, her chin soaking drool through his jeans while she stares at the tennis ball that’s in his grip. His head is leaned back and he can feel himself breathing, slowly now. So slowly, calming the racing in his chest and forcing the sweat filming his hands to dry. A deep breath of dying leaves swirling in on the breeze.

His eyes fall to the skeleton leaf at his right, the one that was stomped into the ground and left to die. His breath catches when his gaze lands on the heart of the leaf, the heart of it that’s disintegrated and lost forever in the dirt and green grass, the heart of it which is now pierced through with a daisy, a tiny white daisy with a yellow center smiling up at the fading heat of the sun.

He can feel the body heat next to him. He knows she’s sitting on her hands and she’s trying not to talk. She’s trying so hard not to talk, and she’s trying not to grab the ball out of his hand and throw it for Luna. And she’s trying so hard not to take off running across the grass with her. 

He feels a smile start tugging at the corners of his lips, feeling his heart beat steadying, slowing, taking another deep breath when he feels her hand slide into his and hears her voice laced with excitement, “there they are,” it’s a whisper and she’s trying not to act overeager, but it’s so hard. His head tips forwards, his hand launches the ball for the dog and his eyes land first on the redhead beside him, her smile is wide and it’s enough to calm the thumping in his ears, the nervousness he’s been fighting with for a week now. Stealing as much calm from her support as he possibly can, reaching out to tousle her hair, “you ready Uncle Mickey?”

“Yeah,” as he’ll ever be, he gets to his feet. Letting his eyes follow the trail of green grass that will soon be turning to yellow and dying back for the winter, following the clods of dirt that the dog’s feet kicked up. Meeting first their shoes. Kid’s got brand new tennies on, the kind rich kids wear when they’re pretending they ain’t rich. Svet’s got some fuckin’ fancy ass designer bullshit and he can’t stifle the snort that exits his body.

“What?” Franny whispers beside him, her hand wiggling inside of his grip.

“Nothin’,” shifting his weight from one side to the other, “nothin’ kid.”

“Her shoes?”

“Yeah,” he grunts under his breath, “her shoes are fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Everything about her is,” she tells him from the corner of her mouth.

He elbows her, “you don’t know the half of it.”

When she giggles he feels a smile rise on his face and his eyes dart to his son’s face. All that shit he was doing, all that breathing and relaxing and calming, it goes right out the fuckin’ window and he feels the years built up like bricks in his stomach. Eyes immediately stinging when he sees a lighter haired version of himself at that age, “fuck,” it shakes and falls down to the ground at his feet, his hand already growing slimy with sweat and the world around them blurring into nothing more than a string of eye contact from a set of eyes he turned his back on. He turned his fucking back on. 

They’re so close. They’re so close, he could reach out and touch them by the time they stop walking. Why is the world getting so fucking blurry? Why is his son’s face so goddamned blurry? 

His eyes are locked onto Mickey’s face, studying it like he’s taking note of how his future image will look in the mirror and Mickey wants to tell him that no, no he won’t look like this, he’ll look so much better, he’ll do so much better, he’ll be so much better; but something has blocked off his words in his chest and constricted his airway.

He watches his son shuffle, eyes drop to his chest for a moment before they rise again and he tells him, “I guess you’re my dad.”

“Yeah,” it’s thick and that’s why everything is a fuckin’ blur. His free hand rises to wipe the tears off his cheeks, “yeah,” clearing his throat, “I guess I am, kid.”

There’s a half smile that rises, an awkward pause but his eyes linger and his hand rises with a baseball mitt, shrugging, “I brought a ball and a couple gloves ‘cause Mom said you like baseball. And, I, um, guess that’s what I want to do.”

“Yeah?” he feels Luna come skidding into the ground beside him and drop the ball at his feet, “well I brought a kid and a dog ‘cause I figured if you hated me, you wouldn’t be able to hate them,” his focus lands on Svet’s cold appraisal of him and he shrugs, “Debbie’s brat.”

“Brat?” Franny scoffs, “you said I turned out pretty okay for a Gallagher.”

His hand releases hers and he feels himself smile, reaching out for the glove his son is offering, “alright, let’s see what you got Northside.”

—————

Ginger fucker’s sittin’ on the front porch when they get home. Mickey’s arm is tired from throwing the ball back and forth to the kids while Luna ran around like a psycho puppy chasing after every single throw. His face hurts from smiling and his damn throat is sore and full of frogs from talking so damn much. Little bastard wouldn’t stop askin’ fuckin’ questions by about a half hour into their session. Svet, that dumb bitch, was mostly quiet, only chiming in when she got a chance to make some snide remark. Well, fuck, he can’t really blame her for bein’ a bitch, for playing the fuckin’ hand she was dealt, it’s not like it was her choice to jerk cock for a living. Who the fuck would choose that? And it wasn’t her fault Terry called for her that day. Fuck that day. But, fuck, that kid, he is something alright. 

“Hey,” his voice is like coming home, but Mickey ain’t gonna say anything like that. Like ever. 

“Hey,” and his damn smile is like laying his head down at the end of a really long fucking day.

Franny’s too fucking tired to say much of anything, stumbling up the steps and giving Ian a cursory hug on her way passed. And Luna, Mickey smirks when he stops at the gate and looks back to where she’s dragging herself down the sidewalk.

“Looks like you won the day,” Ian grins when he leans out to watch her too. His hand lands on Mickey’s arm, quick squeeze. The fucker ain’t gonna kiss him or nothin’ out here in front of the house, but he can tell by his face that he wants to. Fucker. He was probably out here pacing all afternoon waiting for Mick to call him for help, waiting for him to have some kind of emergency, like he don’t know how to entertain two kids, a dog, and a former whore. Fuck him.

Fuck, “c’mere,” but Mickey’s too goddamned tired to do much more than stand there with his lips pursed. It ain’t gonna turn into some face-devouring zombie type bullshit. Not that he don’t want that shit sometimes, he just is fucking tired. Doesn’t stop that fucker from nudging his nose and waiting for him to tilt his head back, hand sliding across his jaw, finding the back of his head and lingering there. 

—————

He’s so fucking tired that by the time Ian slides into bed behind him, he doesn’t even grunt. Ian grunts through, he grunts his way right through the pushing and pulling and arms wrapping around Mickey to get him settled just fuckin’ right with his dick pillow between them, laughing lightly against his neck, his breath rising goosebumps on his flesh, “winning the day is hard work,” lips on his spine, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was speculation that Mickey would be mad they went behind his back to get a hold of Svet - canon Mickey would be pissed for sure - but I think this version of Mickey would be relieved over everything else that someone took that step. If he had pictures of Yev in prison with him then he was the one thing keeping him going but with his overall feelings of worthlessness he'd have a hard time putting himself out there to get a hold of them. 
> 
> I did think over the first conversation with Svet after there was mention of wanting to see that. But I decided to put this little chapter in without mapping out how we got here because it felt like it was time for a little surprise gift that we didn't see coming. I was ready for a gift anyway, since the healing still has a long way to go and sometimes the healing is more painful than the breaking. I also have a hard time grasping Svet this far into canon. I've written her a couple times and when I take her from earlier in her arc, I can find her more easily. After the thruple junk, I just kind of lost her, so much like all the characters by then in the show - I just lost them. But there is at least one more chapter with these two in it.


	39. Would You Have Come?

Would You Have Come?

 

Mickey is lying on his back, arm bent behind his head. The blankets tucked to his armpits, laying over his chest like the armor that Ian wants to rip off. His gaze is aimed out the window, watching the dying Autumn leaves swaying against the backdrop of the streetlight. He’s chewing slowly on his lower lip, those coded messages that no one else will ever understand. 

Ian clicks off his phone, sets it on the nightstand and rolls to his shoulder to face him. His hand landing on the mattress between them, brushing just barely against Mickey’s ribs through the cotton, just enough to draw his attention. Just enough that his blue eyes land on Ian’s, and steal his breath from his lungs. 

“What’s runnin’ through that thick skull of yours?” settling his cheek into the pillow.

He shrugs, teeth still working into that lip. He’s so fucking gorgeous like this, he’s so fucking gorgeous in the dim glow of the bedroom with his lip tucked into his teeth and thoughts slowly floating by like bubbles across a pale summer sky, lying in the grass to count the clouds. 

Ian’s hand rises, without his permission, and it lands on Mickey’s lips, thumb sliding across them like a mini windshield wiper, the contact makes words exit those lips as his brows dip slightly, “if you could tell teen you anything, what would it be?”

“Easy,” thumb moving to his jaw, “medicate.”

There’s a smile that rises, it’s somewhere between proud and forlorn. It drops when his eyes do, Ian’s hand falling to find his where it’s tucked behind his head. 

“What about you?”

He shrugs, pretending he wasn’t thinking about that because he was thinking about that in regard to himself. It’ll come out eventually. In the meantime, Ian slides his fingers between Mickey’s and watches his profile. Soft, he’s soft like this. His hard edges are filed down and his raw gaping wounds are sewed up and he’s just Mickey. He’s just Mickey. A mind full of thoughts, a throat full of words he’ll never say, and somewhere between those two is the truth, “leave.”

It cuts through Ian, heart picking up pace and jumping into his throat. Leave. Leave before it could begin. And he gets it, he understands it. But he never thought, never thought that Mickey would think it.

He clears his throat, his fingers rise to grind into his eyes, “I don’t know. Like maybe the first time I got out of juvie. Just fuckin’ pack up whatever we could sell along the way and fuckin’ leave.”

Ian listens to his eyes being pushed around in their sockets and his breath exiting his lips. Before the air enters again, his hand drops, his lids blink and blink and blink before that ocean clears and meets Ian’s gaze, “would you have come?”

He thinks of his siblings and his life and school and friends and job and home and that boy in the dugout. He thinks of that constellation of freckles on Mickey’s translucent flesh, “in a heartbeat.”

His breath shakes with relief and his eyes sting, though he’d never admit it. Hand rising to rub his life into a blur, but Ian grabs it and it’s only a breath before he’s leaning over him, nose to nose and waiting. Waiting for that tiny ocean to sparkle the okay to dive in. When he dives he doesn’t push and pull and force his way to the bottom, he lets himself be overtaken, lets himself be pulled into the absolute depth of Mickey and he wishes he could live there forever. 

When his lungs are filled with water and his eyes are trying to burst from his head, he doesn’t struggle. He submits to the whim of the tide and the gentle sway of the current. The current only allows him to surface as a wave that tickles the shore tenderly, with kisses against his jaw and fingers in his hair. With breath traveling the surface of his bare skin and galaxies imploding in his lids. With Mickey’s forehead against his and the sheen of sweet between them. With the sheets at his back and Mickey’s hips locked between his thighs. With his hands flat on the plains of Mickey’s shoulder-blades and his fingers gracing the surface of his missing constellation and he wonders if he feels it, if he feels it every single chance he gets, it he runs his fingers over it time and time again, he wonders, he keeps wondering if the memory of those freckles with disappear. Disappear like the freckles themselves. The thought stings on the back of his tongue and echoes in his mind while his breath hitches and he fights the tears from rising. Letting his hand fall instead to Mickey’s lower back, pressing him close, as close as possible. 

He keeps him there, keeps him there for as long as both of them can stand it. Like maybe if he hangs on tight enough they can remain one being for the rest of their lives. 

But they can’t. 

So he watches as Mickey wipes them both up, and he watches as he lays back down, and he settles in. On his back again. And Ian can’t help it when his eyes linger on his chest before he pulls the blankets up. And he can’t help it when he grabs the extra blanket off the foot of the bed and tucks it around Mickey, waiting for the morning that he wakes up to the heat of his natural furnace and the blanket tossed on the floor. Ian settles on his belly, picking up on Mickey’s hint that he’s not in the cuddling mood at the moment. And that’s okay. That’s okay, it’s especially okay when he locks Ian’s fingers into his and brings them to his lips, keeping them there while his eyes watch the ceiling in the dark, only the light from the street outside spilling through the cracks in the curtain and slicing the room in half. But enough that Ian can see those watery surfaces so full of loud things that will always be kept quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much longer will the loud things remain quiet? So the bandaid on the artery is holding back the flood for now, but how long will that last? 
> 
> Here's something depressing I've thought about off and on but never voiced and never heard anyone else wonder. We saw Mickey's canon experiences with topping as not fulfilling - 'gotta do all the fucking in juvie', 'if I wanted to fuck a dude in the ass I'd have stayed in prison' - and chicks that he was banging to try to force himself straight, and then the corrective rape. So here's what I wonder - does Mickey equate topping only with rape/non-con experiences? If so, would topping with Ian heal some of that? We know Ian's up for it, he offered. Add it to my list of questions canon will never answer on the topics they created and then decided to brush off without providing closure. I'm pretty sure season ten will just make me feel like I'm slamming my head against a brick wall. Noel's carrying the weight of the fandom on his shoulders, but I guess it's his fault anyway for giving a raw/real/beautiful/intriguing/unforgettable character in a show that is forgettable. Damn him anyway...


	40. Changing Of The Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to switch up the POV

Changing Of The Guard

 

Iggy stumbles in the darkness, under the lazy glow of streetlights into the shadows of the underpass, aimed for the trashcan fire. The whiskey on his shoulders like a coat in the damp chill of an Autumn night. The whiskey firing though his veins and snapping his nerves with the fucking day he’s had. This fucking day. Fuck this day. Fuck.

He only meant to have a few. Yesterday. After work. Painting houses. Painting fuckin' houses and getting high on his lunch break. Working for these yuppie pricks who’re invading the Southside like fucking zombies with an appetite for money and manicured lawns and buildings without fucking spray paint on ‘em. Fuck yuppies. Fuck. But it ain’t like he’s got a brain worth more than painting fucking houses and inhaling fucking fumes that are only gonna dull what’s left of his brain.

He used to have a brain. Like a real fucking brain that worked the way a real fucking brain is s’posed to work. But then Mom, that selfish bitch, had to go and fuckin’ OD and leave them alone with Terry. And fuck. Fuck. It ain’t like Iggy didn’t try. But fuck. And it ain’t like it didn’t bother him to see Dad beatin’ on Colin and it ain’t like it didn’t bother him when Colin would take the hits meant for Iggy. Fuck Colin. Fuckin’ Colin is the one who told him to use his damn brain and get the fuck out as soon as he fuckin’ could, but then he’s the one who fuckin’ introduced him to huffin’. Fucker. Fuck Colin. 

So he’s paintin’ houses and not huffing the paint. That’s what he’s doing on this whole fuckin’ strait and narrow shit and it ain’t the worst fucking thing. No, the worst fucking things are passed. Fuck, they have to be. 

So he’s paintin’ houses and not huffing the paint, smoking pot on his lunch break and then the afternoon goes kinda slower but in a good way and he don’t really fuckin’ care ‘cause he’s gettin’ paid by the hour anyway. So fuck’s it matter how long the damn day takes? It takes eight hours whether he’s huffing the paint or smoking a joint or not.

So he’s paintin’ houses and not huffing the paint, well, not always anyway. When yesterday, yesterday when he didn’t huff anything or smoke anything, or not that he remembers, but fuck. Fuck, when he ain’t high on something, that’s when all the fucking shit happens. All the images of their childhood and all the fucking times he failed to protect them and all the fucking times Colin didn’t fail to protect him and how fucking stupid Colin turned out to be from takin’ so many fuckin’ hits to the head and it was Iggy’s fuckin’ fault for not taking his own hits, but it was Colin’s fuckin’ fault for takin’ the hits. So fuck Colin. 

Fuck. So sure, Iggy ain’t the worst of the bunch of fucked up Milkovich fuckheads, but he ain’t the best either. Sure in the fuck ain’t the best and he ain’t never been and he’s always fuckin’ known that. So of course he’s paintin’ houses and not huffing the paint and getting high on his lunch break and then going home to the fucking house he’d rather burn to the fucking ground than live in, but it’s a fucking roof over his head and he only sees the old memories chasing him down the hall like fucking ghosts when he ain’t high. So he stays high. And he can’t for the life of him figure out how the fuck those dipshits living there now, treatin’ the place like a fuckin’ halfway house or some shit, remain sober and not high. Is that the same thing? Fuck it. Fuck.

So yesterday, he’s paintin’ houses and not getting high when he starts thinkin’ about Colin and he starts thinking he should probably go see ‘im. But he starts thinkin’ about all the other shit too. And he starts wonderin’ if Colin knows, if he knows all the other shit, and he starts thinkin’ he should tell him but he sure in the fuck don’t want to be the one that tells him, and he wonders if it matters anymore ‘cause it ain’t like he’ll breathe a free breath for the rest of his life. And he starts wonderin’ if Mickey’s seen ‘im. He sure in the fuck hopes that stupid fuck don’t think it’s okay to walk into a prison visitation room alone, so if he has seen ‘im then maybe Iggy should just ask Mandy. Or that Gallagher prick. Fuckin’ prick. 

Well, fuck, it sure don’t take a fuckin’ rocket scientist to figure out that Mickey went through all that shit and ended up behind bars for that carrot stick, and sure in the fuck don’t take a fuckin’ physicist to know that the only reason Mickey loved that fucker so fast and so hard is ‘cause he was the first thing to ever show Mickey any kind of fuckin’ affection and then Iggy started wonderin’ about all that shit he heard Mickey sayin’. And not like he was talkin’ directly to Iggy. Not really. He was mostly just talkin’ to himself one night, trippin’ balls and wanderin’ around the house with his annoying fuckin’ fingers grinding into his eyes and his eyes locked and loaded on the wall between rubs and between monologues and Iggy can’t even remember the fuck they took that night. But maybe he should have stopped ‘im. Maybe he should’ve seen it comin’. Maybe he should’ve seen it comin’ from the look in his eyes even though he was high as fuck and from the words that were comin’ out all broken and whispered and laughed and smoked all to fuck. But some of the words were super fuckin’ clear and they’ve stayed that way in Iggy’s mind even though he sure in the fuck don’t want ‘em to. 

So he stopped for a shot of whiskey at the Alibi after work. Just one shot then he was ‘onna get on the L and take it to the bus to wherever the fuck Colin’s locked up. And he was ‘onna tell ‘im. Or not. Either fuckin’ way it’s been kind of a long time since he’s looked as his brother’s ugly mug, so he’ll go see ‘im. After a second shot of whiskey. So he’s sittin’ in the bar mindin’ his own fuckin’ business when that fuckin’ prick who owns the joint starts talkin’ and then the fuckin’ loser pieces of shit who got nothin’ better to do but sit in the fuckin’ Alibi all fuckin’ day every fuckin’ day start talkin’. They start fuckin’ talkin’. 

Ain’t long before one of ‘em says, “did I see a Milkovich or two working at that hipster coffee shop?”

“Yeah. Fuck of it?” he mumbled into his empty glass, eyes darting over to meet that fucker’s behind the bar, “another.”

“Nothin’, just seems,” it’s the fuckin’ fat one talkin’ and Iggy wants to cave his fuckin’ teeth in. He shakes his head, downs the dregs of his beer and laughs, “millennials. Always all up in arms trying to fight The Man, but they’re just cogs in the wheel anyway.”

“Feeding the gentrification machine,” the one with the buggy fuckin’ eyes adds to this fuckin’ edge-of-the-seat commentary.

“Fuck. Of. It?” he’s about two fuckin’ breaths away from shovin’ out of the bar. He could get a good lickin’ in on these two fucks before fucking Andre The Giant could get over the bar to stop ‘im.

“Tommy and Kermit here, what they’re trying to say is,” Andre pipes up, “it’s nice to see Milkoviches living in the limits of the law.”

“For once,” snorts the fat fucker.

The fuckin’ stool is clattering on the floor and his fat fuckin’ face it meetin’ Iggy’s fist. Guess he was wrong about givin’ ‘em both a good lickin’, ‘cause Andre moves faster than he thought and he’s gettin’ shoved out the door before he can touch Eyeballs McGee.

“Fuck you! Fuck you,” hollering on his way out the door, “especially fuck you,” when he gets shoved out the door by the fucking giant.

Fuck. Three shots sure in the fuck ain’t enough now. 

So he’s got a pint and a plan. He’s got an L to catch and five bucks in his pocket. When fuckin’ Angie Zaggo, fuck Angie Zaggo, steps out of her house. ‘Er parent’s house. Or some fuck. But Iggy ain’t seen her parents in years. Maybe she ate ‘em. How the fuck she don’t have seven shoeless dirty kids wanderin’ around by now is fuckin’ beyond Iggy.

“Hey Iggy,” she don’t even make it to sitting down on the top step.

“Wanna fuck?”

“Sure.”

So he’s got half a pint left and cleared tubes and he’s stumbling down the street towards the L and he’s headed to prison. And he gets to the slammer and he sure in the fuck don’t feel like going in there just yet so he stands outside and smokes half a pack and finishes his pint. And picks at the blood startin’ to crust at his knuckle where it met fat fuck’s face. 

So, turns out, when a person shows up piss drunk and maybe kinda high and a little fuckin’ aggressive, the shithead guards don’t like it so much. And turns out he missed visitation hours and he’s gotta be on the list or some fuck but he knows he’s on the fuckin’ list. What the fuck list? He’s seen Colin plenty of times since he’s been locked up. 

“Milkovich. M. I. L. K. O. Vich.”

And it turns out the guards really don’t like that shit at all. So they tell him not so politely to leave. Come back in the mornin’ when he don’t smell like bar-room floor. Well fuck them. He’s gonna smell like stale bar-room floor when he comes back in the mornin’ ‘cause he ain’t gettin’ on another bus just to get on the L and then do it again tomorrow. If he’s gotta do it tomorrow, it just ain’t gonna happen. So he sleeps in the bus stop. ‘Cause fuck them. 

And who’s standin’ at the door first fuckin’ thing in the mornin’? Iggy Milkovich, that’s who. Standin’ there smokin’ his last cig waitin’ for the fuckers to open up visitor’s hours. Then standin’ there spellin’ his name again. Only this time he don’t say a first name, ‘cause he’s startin’ to wonder if this is the right joint and he knows if all he gives is a last name, well, then he’s bound to get someone he knows. So he don’t give a first name. And they don’t ask for one. 

And he sure in the motherfucking fuck is wishin’ he had given a first name when he’s sittin’ there tappin’ his feet at the phone row, wonderin’ why he even came here in the first place ‘cause Colin’s probably gonna call this afternoon anyway, ‘cause he always calls on Saturdays. That’s why. But he rode the L, sat on the bus, and slept in the bus stop cover thing and he smells like stale bar-room floor so, fuck it, no better place to be than a prison visitation area. Only place he’d fit in better is Walmart. 

So, fuck it. 

But he sure in the motherfucking fuck is wishin’ he had specified which fucking Milkovich when the door buzzes open and the fuckin’ group of prisoners all fuckin’ decked out in prison orange come shuffling in. And who does Iggy see? Well it sure in the fuck ain’t Colin. Nope, not Colin. Ain’t Joey either. Ain’t Uncle Randy either and he’s startin’ to wonder where the sonofabitch is. Sure, they’re all family as fuck when someone needs to dig a grave but they ain’t family at all when someone puts a bullet in his own chest. Fuck.  
Fuck. 

Motherfuck. 

Fuck. 

Well, he’s fuckin’ here. So. Fuck.

The old bastard don’t look any different than he ever did. All fuckin’ grey and sharp edged and stony and cold weather. But there’s a weird fuckin’ expression on his face that Iggy ain’t ever seen before when he sits down and lifts the receiver on his side. And Iggy don’t. It’s like he can’t. Like he ain’t got a right hand no more or somethin’. He just sits there all openmouthed like he’s catchin’ flies. That why they call Eyeballs McGee ‘Kermit’?

Fuck. Well ‘pparently he’s got a left hand. ‘Cause it just rose up out of nowhere to run through his hair and then come back around and cover his eyes. Or his forehead. Or somethin’. But Dad’s still got that weird look on his face and a bead of sweat is rolling down Iggy’s asscrack and he’s wishin’ he had eaten something other than Angie’s pussy in the last fuckin’ twenty four hours ‘cause all that whiskey and puss juice is all threatenin’ to come right back out and land on the fuckin’ plexiglass between them.

Well, what the fuck? Turns out he still has a fuckin’ right hand and that traitorous fucker is holding the fuckin’ phone to his ear and his left one is still coverin’ his eyes but his mouth starts makin’ noise and the first thing that comes out, “Colin’s doin’ life ‘cause o’ you,” and he wishes his stupid hand would move so he could see this shit register on his dad’s face, “I fuckin’ burned my brains out ‘cause o’ you,” if this shit even registers on his face, “Mandy thought she was nothin’ more than a walkin’ pussy for years ‘cause o’ you,” fuck, he remembers when he used to look at Dad through his fingers after his hand would come up to hide behind. And when he was startin’ to feel brave again, his first bastard of a finger would move so he could see that asshole’s face. And that’ fuckin’ happenin’ right fuckin’ now and he’s sayin’, “Mickey put a fucking bullet in his heart ‘cause o’ you,” and his stupid fucking breath gets all shaky and his mouth starts feelin’ all numb and another finger moves and he can see the old man’s eyes on his face and he tells him, “Mom put that needle in her arm ‘cause o’ you.”

And the fucker don’t deny it. The fucker don’t deny any of it. He can’t. He knows it’s fuckin’ true. But he could have the fuckin’ human decency to look remorseful or some shit. Or say fuckin’ ‘sorry’ or some shit. Or fuckin’ anything other than just sittin’ there on the other side of the glass starin’ at him like he already knows all this fuckin’ shit and it’s old news and when Iggy’s third fuckin’ finger betrays him and both of his eyes are starting to peer around them he sees somethin’. He sees somethin’ in the old man. He sees his fuckin’ chin tremble and he fuckin’ looks away. His head is turned and he’s lookin’ at the partition.

His voice sounds the fuckin’ same as it ever has when he growls, “that why you come here?” but it kind of shakes and loses it’s intimidation factor and Iggy wonders if the old man has some kind of a fuckin’ piece of a heart inside his chest that’s still beating and he wonders what the fuck fucked him up so bad that he turned out this way. And he wonders if he’ll ever fuckin’ know or if the piece of shit’ll rot back here with all his hatred and his violence and he’ll always seem like this inhuman beast of a man that’ll always haunt Iggy’s mind and tear through his brain like whoever that fucked up living nightmare creature did to Mickey’s flesh. And thinking of Mickey’s scars and how fuckin’, fuck, his eyes well and he can’t fuckin’ stop it and he wants to get up and shout all of it out and tell the old man how much he fuckin’ hates him and how much he wants to get back that his old man took away and he knows he’ll never get it back but he wants to get dragged out of here kicking and screaming and be blacklisted for the rest of his fucking life from this institution and maybe all the institutions and he wants to run out of here on his own two legs like a fuckin’ grown man with some pride but he ain’t ever gonna be a man with pride. So he does what he can, he does what that man has taught him to do, he fucking sits here and he chokes back the tears and he stifles the fear and he lets the images come crashing to the front of his fucked brain and he accepts it. He accepts that he’ll never be nothin’. And he’ll never feel nothin’ more than this life that this man and this family this circumstance has allowed him to feel. 

And he’ll fuckin’ sit here, and maybe he’ll say, “no. I didn’t come here for you. I got on the wrong fuckin’ bus. I was lookin’ for Colin.”

And the old man’ll snort ‘cause he’s got an idiot retard for a son and he made him that way. But at least he won’t say it. ‘Cause they both know it and it sure in the fuck don’t feel better to say that shit anyway. 

And maybe he’ll sit here for the whole fuckin’ visitation time and he’ll look at the side of his dad’s face ‘cause he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna look at his eyes and see all that shit come out and reach through the glass to slap him across his stupid face. ‘Cause that’s what he is. He’s stupid. And ain’t nothin’ gonna change that now. Nothin’ he can say to him and nothin’ he can do to make a stand and nothin’ he can do ‘cept get dragged outta here or get up and walk like a man. 

By the time the time is up, his left hand has dropped and it’s sittin’ on the counter in front of him and on the other side of the glass is his old man’s hand on the counter and he notices that they’re the same fuckin’ hands and he fuckin’ hates himself for it and his hands sure in the fuck ain’t gonna be restin’ on the counter on the other side of that glass. So he gets to his feet as his right hand slides the phone back into the hook and his eyes meet the old man’s and the fucker nods at him and it stings in his chest, but he knows what he knows and the old man knows what he knows and there ain’t no sense in puttin’ all that shit out on the table and sortin’ through it with a fine tooth comb when their own memories and nightmares do enough of that without promptin’. 

So he stands in the cold Fall air and waits for the bus. When he tilts his head back and feels the nip in the wind on his face, he watches a lone snowflake falling from the sky and he wonders if it’s true, what is coworker, Ty, told ‘im last week about seeing extra road kill means it’s ‘onna be a cold fuckin’ winter. 

So it’s the bus, and the L, and the liquor store and he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna go home to that halfway house with whiskey in his blood and anger crawling around under his skin with some kind of armor of numb that he’s always worn. Numb to cover the hurts that he can’t allow himself to feel and he huffs and he smokes and he shoots and he swallows to keep it that way. 

—————

It’s fuckin’ Sunday mornin’ by the time he stumbles home. He ain’t figured out how to hold his head so it don’t hurt. He can see his fucking breath in the cold air and his damn little brother with his fucked up hands is sittin’ on the bottom step of the back porch where he was just hopin’ he could sneak in and hide in his room for the rest of the fuckin’ day, but guess that ain’t happenin. 

“The fuck were you?”

He shrugs, watches Luna take off across the dead grass, leans against the porch and lights a cig. ‘Cause he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna talk about where he was. ‘Cause that shit ain’t worth talkin’ about it. Is it? His eyes fall on Mickey’s face, where it’s all sunken in and he wonders if he’ll ever look the way he used to or if his cheeks were stripped off him when his dignity and his sanity were. 

“I saw Dad,” guess he is gonna talk about it.

He don’t ask why. Iggy knew he wouldn’t ask why.

“Thought I was visitin’ Colin. Guess not.”

He grunts, but it ain’t like Dad’s grunt. It’s like ‘you’re an idiot but I know why you’re an idiot and it don’t make me think less of you’, “Colin called Mandy’s phone yesterday. After he tried yours.”

He shrugs it off, “when you gettin’ a phone? Joinin’ the twenty-first century or some fuck?”

“I ain’t.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll just say this, little brother, it’s porn in the palm o’ your hand,” he feels his lips curling into a smile and he thinks it feels kinda weird on his face but he ain’t sure why. He watches his hand drop to his brother’s head, musing the grey stuff and thinkin’ there’d never be a day he’d see grey on a head of hair that was s’posed to die young, makes ‘im look all fuckin’ sophisticated or some fuck, “the queer stuff too,” he clarifies.

“Fuck off,” his hand rises to swat Iggy’s away.

“Raging Stallion,” he shrugs, “whattaya prefer? Bears? Twinks? Otters?”

“The fuck you talkin’ about?” his brows dart up to his forehead and Iggy can’t help it when he smiles over it.

“Fucked a girl for awhile once, wouldn’t fuck unless there was gay porn on in the background. There’s some fuckin’ weird shit out there. Fuckin’ queers,” he smacks his brother’s shoulder, “but, man, you’d be surprised how many girls fetishize that shit.”

“The fuck is an otter?”

“Skinny hairy dude. You sure you’re queer Mick?”

This time it’s the middle finger salute after he tosses the ball for the dog. 

“I’m sure there’s a category for gingers.”

“Fuck off.”

“So just one fuckin’ ginger, huh?” this time he kicks his foot, “well I guess, good for fuckin’ you then.”

His eyes dart over and meet Iggy’s, lookin’ all skeptical and shit.

Iggy just shrugs, “I’m fuckin’ serious. Ain’t many people actually get to be as fucked up as us and still be happy or some fuck.”

“Yeah, well, Milkoviches don’t do happy.”

“Yeah, well, guess it depends on what kind o’ Milkovich you wanna be shithead.”

“Fuck’s that ‘sposed to mean?”

Iggy shrugs again, his eyes lingering on that grey spot before they meet blue, “changin’ of the guard baby brother,” using his head as a railing on his way up the stairs, knowing he’s getting the Milkovich salute but he don’t care. Fucker’s startin’ to sound like hisself. And that’s pretty fuckin’ okay as far as Iggy’s concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something weird is happening on my face and I'm not sure if it's tears or laughter. First time I've ever written something from Iggy's POV, might have to do it again some day.
> 
> Still trying to wrap this up before the season airs, so we'll put the correct layers of bandaging over the bleeding artery of Mickey's sexual perceptions or misperceptions in the next few chapters and get them solidly walking down the path of steady and loving before it's over. Just hope my bravery can make it that far.
> 
> Thanks friends :)


	41. I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING : PUTTING WORDS ON THE PAST
> 
> So I'm sure there are all kinds of triggers in here, Mickey is going to talk about his rapes, and there's some really uncomfortable sexual content in here. 
> 
> Tread lightly.

I Love You

 

There’s a storm raging outside, ice smacking the windows, wind whipping against the single-paned glass strong enough to make the curtains shift with each gust against the closed window. Howling down the alleys and throwing debris down streets in the night. 

But it can’t compare to the storm raging inside Mickey’s body. Ian can see it. And he can feel it. The raging against Mickey’s tongue in his mouth and his teeth clacking against Ian’s with every kiss. His breath is ragged like he just ran a marathon and his eyes won’t meet Ian’s. 

Ian doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of this storm and he knows that isn’t Mickey’s intention. 

‘Liking what I like don’t make me a bitch.’

But prison did and now he can’t figure out how to separate the two. He can’t find a time when bottoming didn’t hurt, when it wasn’t forced. He’s starting to get impatient, wanting to like what he liked again. Wanting things to feel like they used to. Ian knows that. Even if Mickey won’t put the words on it. 

When his hips start rocking in Ian’s lap where he’s straddling him, his hands have found Ian’s dick between them, his plan is to ride this storm out of his body. Ian’s hands clamp down on his hips, he draws back from the kisses, but Mickey just darts right back in. 

“Wait,” it’s all muffled and tangled up on his tongue with Mickey’s and it doesn’t slow him, only spurs him on. The grinding becoming desperate and frenzied, his hands moving with more vigor and the goal in his mind cementing itself, “wait,” he tries again. 

He crashes into Ian’s mouth, his body shifting in his lap. The clothing was already removed and he’s, fuck, Ian shudders, thinking Mickey is about to do this with spit lube, without warm up, he wants it to hurt. He wants this to fucking hurt. Fuck. 

“Stop,” shit, he wishes his dick would go limp, but it’s hard as hell to convince that thing to stop thinking about Mickey once it starts thinking about Mickey. Fuck, and then if it did go limp, Mickey would certainly see that as a sign he was no longer attracted to him or that he was disgusting and disfigured. 

Fuck. Shit, he’s spitting on a hand and Ian’s surprised at this point that he isn’t ripping off a scab and lubing it up with blood. A surge of anger prickles down his spine, rises the hair on the back of his neck and forces his body to take action before this goes any further. He has no desire to use force with this man, ever, but he has no choice. The blood rushing in Mickey’s ears has made him deaf and he’s determined as hell to just do this, his way, his way that was taught through prison and a psychotic cellmate. Fuck. Grasping for control in a sea that is uncontrollable.

Ian’s arms wrap around his body, dragging him close to his chest and rolling them both quickly. Forcing an angle between Mickey’s legs that would make it impossible for him to get what his fucked up mind is trying to tell him he wants or deserves. 

“Stop,” repeating now that he’s in the power position, “stop. Take a breath,” keeping his face close, close enough that his nose brushes up against Mickey’s when he turns his head. 

His eyes are burning and everything written in scrolls across those irises is terrifying. His hands have come down on Ian’s chest, but he’s only going to hold tighter until he can get Mickey to reappear beneath him, “stop. You don’t deserve pain Mick. You do not deserve pain. You do not deserve pain,” the force against Ian’s chest is getting harder but when he blinks there’s a tremble in his chin, Ian knows he heard him. Even if the storm broiling isn’t calmed yet, it’s beginning to lessen enough that his voice is coming through, “you deserve to feel what you want to feel, but I not will allow pain during sex. Sex should never hurt, it should never hurt, if it hurts then it’s not sex, it’s rape. It is rape. And it was not your fault. It was not your fault. Not your fault,” his lip trembles and his eyes disappear beneath lids. If he can’t fight his way out from beneath Ian he will make the world disappear by closing his eyes. He’ll be covering his ears in about thirty seconds if Ian doesn’t do this right, “you are not going to hurt with me. You are not allowed to hurt with me. I will not hurt you. I don’t care what you think you deserve. I don’t care,” his hands are dropping from Ian’s chest but not rising to his ears just yet, “you are not allowed to hurt. You’ve hurt enough for a fucking century,” now his voice trembles and his forehead drops, meeting Mickey’s. 

The contact makes the muscles in his body that were so rigid and so board-like, go lax. His exhale shakes and a noise comes out of his mouth that Ian recognizes immediately. Releasing his hold on him but not letting go.

“I love you Mick, I can’t fucking handle how much I love you, and how much I want you to be okay, fuck,” his hand is sliding up his arm, shoulder, neck, finding the handle of his jaw. Forehead leaning out, away just far enough to look at his face, “open your eyes. Please,” it’s whispered and he wants so fucking badly to see some kind of peace in those eyes, something, anything, just, “please,” his vision is getting blurry with tears, “please hear me, please know that I love you, I love you Mickey. And I’m here. Right here, staying here. Loving you and wanting to be with you. And waiting. I’m not fucking kidding when I say if it takes the next ten years to reverse the last ten, I’m here.”

He doesn’t get the eyes, doesn’t get the contact. But his body is getting pliable and his breath is coming out evenly. Ian watches as his jaw unclenches, his lips part just slightly with a shallow breath.

He doesn’t push Ian away, he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t do much of anything. So Ian stays. Leaning over him and watching his face, watching his eyes move beneath his lids as he breathes, listening to his breath, falling into rhythm with his own. His hand is remaining on Mickey’s jaw and his face is staying close, so close. Leaving his body over Mickey’s, between his legs, letting his weight down easy. 

He takes a deep breath, letting the scent of Mickey invade his head, his thoughts, his everything. Sliding down his chest, not settling in until his cheek is against Mickey’s heart. Against his heart, over his bullet scar, “I love you,” he tells that beautiful heart, “I love you so much,” turning his head to layer kisses over the scar, “more than I could ever say.”

Turning his head again, situating his ear directly over his heart, taking note of the small cushion over his bones. Enough cushion that he’s comfortable, he’s okay with laying over him, putting body weight on him without thinking he’ll break under the pressure. 

Enough cushion that he’s uncertain of how long he’s been there counting the beats and feeling his ribcage expanding with each inhale. The feel of Mickey’s fingers in his hair. The beating is calm, the breathing is even, the sheen of sweat is sticky and his hands are delicate. Stroking through, back and forth, even and tender. Ian knows Mickey can feel it, he can feel the softness of each strand and he’s allowing it to filter into his mind. 

When Ian takes a deep breath, Mickey’s voice exits, haltingly, “Terry killed him. Buck. Buck, who’s teethmarks I get to walk around wearing for the rest of my fucking life. He killed him right in front of me. Now Terry’s gonna do life. Because of me.”

Ian’s mouth opens, about to tell him it’s not his fault, but Mickey’s, “don’t,” interrupts him and he takes a breath, “I know it ain’t my fault, so don’t. Just don’t. I gotta say this now ‘cause I ain’t ever talkin’ about it again. And you gotta be quiet and you gotta not look at me.”

Ian closes his eyes, listens to his heart sloshing around under his ear, takes a deep breath, and waits.

Mickey’s hand disappears from Ian’s hair, he knows where it’s headed, he knows it headed for his eyes and he won’t stop them. He listens to the grind, to the squishing around, and he’s fucking glad for it. As much as he knows this is going to hurt like fuck, whatever it is that Mickey is about to say, this is going to make his fucking mouth full of metal and he knows that, but Mickey is about to speak. And he’s doing the grind, and Ian didn’t realize how much he missed that fucking grind until he started doing it again. 

“Fuck,” hand dropping suddenly, fingers in Ian’s hair again, “you want me to use fuckin’ words. Dr. Bitch wants me to use words. So I’ll use some fuckin’ words. Yeah, it was rape. It was fuckin’ rape that day, it was corrective rape. I fuckin’ know that. And it don’t make it feel any better. It don’t make it go away. I hate that fuckin’ day, I hate everything about that fuckin’ day. I hate,” his voice chokes off. 

And Ian waits. Forcing himself to breathe. Opening his eyes, this close, right over his heart, right over his scars. Thinking again, thinking again, thinking always about how close it was, how close it all was. Fuck, his face turns, lips against his silky reminder of death.

The contact forces his voice out, “I hate the memory of your face. That day. The memory of her face and her body. The way it felt,” it catches and his heart thuds hard under Ian’s ear, “the way it felt to think it would be so simple, so simple for him to end it then. For him to end our lives. Your life. And I couldn’t,” it hitches and it burns, “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything to,” his hand disappears from Ian’s hair again. 

Listening to the grind, trying like hell to stay here, to just stay where he is. Mickey is using words. And if Ian looks at him, looks at him with the pity on his face that he wore that day, the disgust on his face that he wore that day, if Ian looks at him; his eyes close, loosing a tear that trails from the corner of his eye, down his temple, and gets caught on Mickey’s skin, seeping into his satin.

“I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I did what I did to protect you. To protect us. To,” the grind stops and his hand lands again in Ian’s hair, “I did what I did. I don’t regret that. I don’t regret it for a fuckin’ instant. ‘Cause you’d be dead if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t fucked her. If I hadn’t played along. If I hadn’t,” his breath quivers, “fuck,” anger starts rising. Ian can hear it, he can feel it in his chest, he can taste it in the air between them, “fuck. Fucking kid, that fucking kid. At least there was something good that came out of that day. He is something good. He is something, fuck,” his heart is thumping hard under Ian’s ear and he wants to speak, he wants to remind him to breathe, to calm down, to ground himself. But Mickey needs this. He needs this anger. Anger is something he is allowed to feel.

“The only time, only, fuck,” he’s trying like hell to keep it in check but Ian knows he wants to fist up and start punching his way through his emotions. He’d rather do just about anything than talk about this shit, “the only fuckin’ time I ever bottomed on purpose was with you. And I fuckin’, fuck,” hands are against his face, “fuck. I can’t fuckin’, I’m fuckin’ terrified. I’m fucking terrified that we’ll get to that point, that we’ll get there, that I can fuckin’ enjoy it, and what if I close my eyes? What if I close my eyes and I see him? When it’s you. And what if…” it chokes off and a sob gets swallowed but not before it can split Ian’s chest in half. His lips unconsciously press into that scar again, fuck, it makes him hurt, it makes him physically hurt. 

“What if I can’t make him go away? What if he never goes away? And what if, what if the worst part is that it was still sex, it was still, there was still, it was still,” it breaks.

Ian knows exactly what he’s looking for in that mind. He knows exactly what he’s looking for because he read all the shit the psychologist has been sending home and he’s read all the shit he can find online and he knows, he knows exactly what Mickey is looking for. But he can’t provide it for him. He has to put the words on it himself. He has to get the control back and he has to understand, he has to acknowledge that he was a victim. He was a victim and he didn’t deserve it. 

“There were times,” a deep breath that moves Ian’s head, and his hand finds Mickey’s ribs, sliding over them, feeling now the body that has slowly begun to build up over them. The tissue, the fat, the muscle, sinew, flesh. Not enough. Not yet, “times that it felt good. It still felt good. It was sex. And it, if it felt good, then… what the fuck kind of person does that make me? How fucking fucked in the head to I have to be to,” it chokes off. 

Ian waits. For the grind into the eyes, for the breathing to even out, for more words to come. But they don’t.

When his head shifts, when he begins to lift it, Mickey’s hand comes down, clamps into his hair, wanting him to stay there, to keep looking away, to keep silent, to pretend that none of this ever happened, “please,” he whispers against that scar, like a secret passageway into his heart. 

He releases, allowing Ian to move, but not opening his eyes. Ian leans forward, landing the gentlest of kisses on his closed lids, lingering over him, whispering to him the things he doesn’t want to hear but he has to hear. He has to hear them through the place he’s gone inside to hide, maybe he’s in the fort in the closet, wrapped in his grandmother’s blanket, sharing fear with his little sister. Maybe he’s at the dugout on a hot as balls summer night. Maybe he’s lying in bed, this bed, with a lover beside him and a bundled baby on his chest. Wherever he is, he’s safe, and wherever he is, he can hear Ian’s voice and Ian’s voice is not going to stop until the words in his safe place can spill over into the noises and sights of the rest of his uneasy world, “every single thing that you felt was normal. Every fear and every pain and every stimuli. Your body responded in natural ways to rape. It does not make you sick, it does not make you twisted or demented. It is your body’s nature. You are not dirty, or tarnished, or broken. You were a victim Mickey and it was not your fault, you had no control. You had no control over that. You had no control over any of it. And maybe that’s the worst part in moving forward, trying to make sense of control, trying to make sense of pleasure. Trusting me again,” he sighs, watching Mickey’s eyes move beneath the lids, “trusting that I can support you through rape the way I didn’t the first time,” now his breath shakes and he feels the burning of tears rising.

‘Would you at least look at me?’

His forehead dips, leans against Mickey’s, adjusting himself over him with his elbows tucked against his ribs, drawing his knees up to slide under Mick’s thighs. A cradle, a messed up version of the fetal position to draw as much comfort as possible, boxing him in with a warm body that never meant him any harm, “you don’t have to look at me until you’re ready. And you don’t have to speak if you’re not ready. But I’m here. And I love you,” he knows Mickey can feel his breath against his closed lips and he can feel the softness of his forehead against his, he can feel his body as protection and comfort. He knows he can feel it on the surface, and he’ll wait, Ian will wait until he can feel it all the way through every layer of abuse and harm. He’ll wait until his love can disintegrate every single instance of hurt and pain inside this man, “I love you,” and he’ll wait, “I love you,” until this, “I love you,” is the only thing that ever echoes inside that head. Until, “I love you,” is all he hears over the alarms and the bells, the screams, the shouts, the hisses and dark whispers, “I love you,” will blanket those in silence and stillness. And, “I love you,” will echo down every single corridor of his mind, and, “I love you,” will never have to be spoken because Ian has showed it enough times that the verbal reminder doesn’t have to exist, but he’ll keep saying, “I love you,” until the day that he dies because Mickey deserves that. He deserves all the, “I love you,” that Ian can possibly say and do until the day they put him in the ground. And fuck, they better figure out a way to grow old and grey together and die on the same day, in the same moment, on the same second because there is no way in Hell Ian can take another breath on this Earth without this man. This man, “I love you.”

—————

He wakes in the morning with Mickey’s body against his chest, with his hair under his nose and the feeling of him in every single cavern and crevice of his mind. Listening to his breath, knowing he’s wide awake, wide awake and staring at the door. Wide awake and a million miles away. But this, sliding a hand up his arm, “morning,” whispering into his hair, “I love you,” drawing back, getting himself out of bed, leaving him there in his own cocoon of blankets and survival instincts, leaving him there with the weight of his life and the release of his words last night still crashing around in his head and weaving their way into something solid, something he can control, something he can acknowledge and control. Something he can put the distance on, it will forever remain, and he can forever know that he’s not alone in fighting it, he’s not alone in living with it, he’s not alone in healing it. 

And Ian knows, this is another thing, just another thing in an endless list of things that Mickey needs to do for himself. He needs to do it for himself. Not for the people around him. Not for Ian. He has to do it for himself. 

—————

The late Autumn air has a crisp of Winter in his mouth, down his throat and tingling through his lungs. He stands on the ledge and watches the water, turning darker shades of cool. The waves throwing themselves with reckless abandon at the concrete, Fall’s leaves swirling like a mirage of lives lived, and died, corpses floating on the transparent surface of an endless cycle of survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it hurts then it's rape - obviously that is not the true definition of rape and everyone knows sometimes there's random pain with consensual sex as well - but I think in this case Ian has to break it down to very basic terms to get Mickey to hear him.
> 
> So the word victim carries a lot of negative connotations with it, but here's the thing - to become a survivor you were first a victim. Acknowledging that portion of it, the part that you had no control over, the part that makes you feel weak, that is one of the hardest parts. It is through weakness that we find strength. Keep on surviving friends.


	42. Flood

Flood

 

Last night’s storm ripped most of the remaining leaves off the trees. Whispering around his feet as he walks Luna down to the park. Crunching of icicles that formed and have fallen with the weak fingers of the sun grasping and pulling them off the homes they made overnight. Yellow, orange, red, and brown under his feet. Under Luna’s feet. She’s staying close to his leg. Closer than usual and he can feel her brushing against him every so often. Every time she does, he feels himself breathe. Every footfall on the pavement a reverberation through his muscles, bones, joints. Connected to this Earth, breathing this air. 

Another day. Another morning. Waking up with Ian behind him but so fucking far away it’s impossible to find him through the fog. Or impossible to find himself. Maybe trying too hard to be the things they used to be but never will be again. Maybe that day in the dugout was the only time they had in their whole fucking lives to be happy. And maybe they should have cherished that. 

He sits on the bench. Feeling the cold dampness immediately seeping through his jeans. The rigidity of the bench at his back, through his coat and against his spine. 

He takes a deep breath, launches the ball. And she doesn’t move. She sits. She sits, and she leans. Against his leg, “go,” he urges. But she doesn’t. She slides, melting onto his right foot, taking a silent stand. Her chin meeting the toe of his left boot with a sigh. 

His head falls back, breath coming in random gasps but not now. Not now. He’s not going to choke up now. This is not why he’s here. He’s here. He is here. 

He blinks. Blinks. Burning and stinging but not spilling over. Blinks. The sky is grey. The heavy threat of winter on the air and in the clouds. Washing across the sky like a dirty cotton ball smudging out the blue background. Fingers of darker grey piercing the cotton and dragging it across the foreground. Winter. The idea of it sits heavy on his chest and he can feel it like the cold grip of the hardware in his sternum. Holding him together. Keeping him together. Surgical hardware. Just another reminder, another thing he’ll carry around, another reminder. Just another reminder. 

A crow soaring, wings spread, across the clouds. He blinks. Feels Luna adjust, and his head rises, eyes landing on them immediately as they make their way across the grass. At least she’s wearing flat shoes now. He feels a smile start to rise when his eyes land on the boy. His boy. His son. A smile he didn’t force, he didn’t wear on purpose, it just happened. And he felt it happen. 

“Catch.”

On instinct, his hand rises, expecting to close around a baseball. But it’s a box, “fuck’s this?” as his eyes drop to scan the item.

“A phone,” Yev sighs, squatting in front of him to scratch Luna’s head, asking her, “where’s your ball?”

Mickey’s eyes rise from the box in his hand, narrow, and land on the woman who shrugs, “boy wants to call father. Not aunt or uncle. Father.”

“I ain’t…”

“Is not charity,” she interrupts, sitting down on the bench beside him, tugging the box out of his hand, expertly removing the porn-in-the-palm-of-your-hand device and turning it on, “is your phone. Consider it early Christmas gift. Son wants to call father,” he feels her shoulder move his when she shrugs again, “son will call father.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t…”

“Phone rings,” which it does, and when the screen lights up, it’s a photo of Yev and his name, his number. She hands it over, “father answers,” swiping the call open with her manicured hand right in front of his eyes. 

His eyes fall from the phone to his son, a mix of hopeful and unsure on his face.

“Father answers,” this time it’s a demand and her elbow jabs into his ribs.

“Fuck,” free hand rising to grind thumb and forefinger into lids, grinding until the spots rise and collide, and the phone is against his ear and it ain’t really that much different, but it’s different, it’s a phone, but it ain’t like the phones were, it’s…

“Father says ‘hello’.”

“Hello,” it’s kind of shaky and kind of gruff and he doesn’t mean it to be that way, but, fuck, this is…

“Hi Dad.”

A flood. Is what it is. It’s a fuckin’ flood. And he ain’t got an ark. Good thing the kid is ready to throw him a damn life raft, he’s hesitant at first. He should be, he met some version of death in his father and watched through the course of the last few weeks as death has started coming back to the life when the daisy pierced through his heart, but he’s still not human. Not yet. Getting there, he thinks, he’s getting there as those skinny preteen boy arms wrap around his neck and his body leans into him like he’s uncertain of whether this is a hug or a middle school slow dance. 

The phone is removed from his hand by the set of clammy fingers he recognizes from his wedding day. And his hand is placed on the back of their son by that same damn hand, and that same damn hand lingers there, over his. It lingers there. He’s not sure if it’s to keep his hand there, on their son’s shoulder-blade where a father’s hand belongs, or if it’s to offer a touch, a simple touch and a simple truce. A simple truce and simple truth.

We got something beautiful out of a horrible day and horrible situation. And now it’s up to us to make sure that beautiful thing remains that way. We put each other through shit. And that’s over now. 

That’s over now, as her hand rises and pats down on top of his. He feels himself nod against the kid’s bony shoulder through his jacket and sweatshirt and he wonders if his son feels the same boniness against his own face. 

Fuck. His hand finally drops from his eyes, landing on Yev’s other shoulder-blade. Squeezing tight, but not too tight. He won’t borrow strength from his son, but he’ll accept the support and love that he is offering. He’ll accept it, and it’ll be another thing he can carry, he can carry around as a reminder. Another reminder. But this time, of something good, of something incredible, of something that can never be blocked out with a dirty cotton ball spread thin and ripped across a blue background. 

—————

“Looks like we have some hockey games to attend this winter,” Ian sighs, leaning over Mickey’s shoulder to watch the plethora of shit he’s trying to sort through on this phone, looks like he's got a jam-packed calendar. His phone. Fuck phones. 

“Kid’s got a busy fuckin’ social life, huh?”

“Keeps him out of trouble.”

“He sure ain’t Southside.”

His damn chin is grinding into Mickey’s shoulder and he wants to tell him to back the fuck off, but he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, fuck, he shouldn’t shrug off the little shit. He shouldn’t hide from the regular people touching. Like this. This shit that don’t lead to intimacy or fuckever label they want him to put on it. Shit that don’t lead to fucking. Like this. And shit where he ain’t takin’ care of Mickey, he’s just sitting here. He ain’t his caretaker and he ain’t his fuck buddy and he, Mickey’s head turns towards his face suddenly and uncontrollably. His lips leave a kiss on his temple before it turns again and he shoulders his chin away. He’s his partner. But his fuckin’ partner is an overbearing fuck and it’s too fuckin’ much sometimes. 

He sighs, reaching over to set his phone on the bedside table. Drink some water, it’s like a thing he has to think through still, not just a reflex, and yeah, fuck water, a beer would be much better, but fuck. Fuck. 

Deep breath, his hips rolling to his side, his proper side facing the door. He can’t look at Ian. Not now. Fuck, probably shouldn’t have shrugged him off like that. Fuck. 

“Fuck,” it’s a whisper when his cheek meets the pillow and sinks in. He listens to Ian beside him. Hears the light click off, feels his weight shift but it doesn’t get closer. It gets further away, “fuck,” something’s tightening in his chest and he ain’t sure what the fuck it is, but it ain’t much different than last night. Wanting to force it, push through the last of the goddamn Wall of China between him and having a fucking normal life. But, “fuck,” he can’t do that. He knows that. Ian’s been so fucking stubborn about trying to go slow and keep things controlled when it’d be so easy to burn in an uncontrolled wildfire, torching the bed and charring their flesh until there’s nothing left but tarnished bones and a bed frame, “fuck,” this time it shakes and his body rolls. He sure in the fuck didn’t tell it to roll, but it did, and his cheek is landing on Ian’s chest. And why the fuck is all of this so fucking foggy and so fucking confusing? It used to be so fucking simple. Slip his pants down over his ass and bend forward, let Ian take it from there. It was fucking simple. And then there had to be kisses, and hand holding, and fucking face to face, and more kisses, and then it just got so fucking messy and now he can’t find the surface or figure out how to get to the depth without suffocating. 

He hears his own breath catch and he feels Ian’s catch in his chest beneath his ear and he wonders if someday, if there will be a someday that they can do something normal, something, anything, fucking anything normal in bed together. If there will be a day when no one is panicking, and no one is failing or hurting or aching, no one is bleeding from a gaping chest wound, no one is depressed or manic and hyper-sexual, no one is tearing off their own skin to get to the depth of their soul, no one is flayed and dying in this bed. 

Ian’s arm snakes it’s way around Mickey’s shoulders, palm landing flat on his upper arm while the other finds the back of his head. Fucker’s hands are big and it only takes one to cup the back of his head, gently, reassuringly. Fuck.

Mickey’s hand has found his ribs, pressing the pads of his fingers into the space between two of them like maybe he can pry them apart and climb in. Maybe Ian’s ribcage can protect them both and he don’t have to be held together by surgical hardware anymore and he can live in Ian’s skin and stay there and he won’t have to die through the hole in his chest and the burns and slices that he’ll never forget and he’ll never be able to stop seeing because they’ll never go away. And he wonders how Ian could possibly find anything about him attractive in any fucking way. Disfigured now on the outside the same way he’s been on the inside for half his life. Fuck. All his life. All his fucking life. He’s always been disfigured. 

And fuck. Fuck. 

Ian’s lips are against his forehead now, every breath sending a reminder, a silent reminder, of three things, three very important things, ‘you are brave. You are strong. And you are loved.’ 

Three very important reminders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not making any promises for the weekend, we'll see how it plays out, or I'll see you next week for the rest of it. Thanks again friends :)


	43. Touch

Touch

 

The air is thick, heavy, burning Ian’s lungs with frost and ice of January. He stares into the cold water as it laps against the concrete, pushing ice and slush against the wall and dragging it back out when it recedes. 

When he turns, he doesn’t run. He walks. He walks. And lets his body feel the aches and pains of running too far too fast to outrun last night. Last night. It can’t be outrun. And it keeps flashing at him with every single blink, it rolls through his ribs with every single breath and it aches like an open raw nerve in his mouth with every swallow, every word spoken, every single fucking movement his body makes lurches through his soul and tastes like metal and ash in his mouth and on his tongue. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going but he knows exactly where he’s going as his feet lead him past the neighborhood. Past his home. Past the Gallagher house. Down the sidewalk slowly. Across the broken cement of a broken courtyard of a broken building full of broken memories. Up each broken step that leads to a broken man who sits in a broken corner with his knees to his chest and his breath exiting in a fine broken mist. 

His eyes like a puddle frosted by Winter’s icy grip, crystalized and cracked under a careless heel when they flit across Ian’s face and drop to his hands. Hands, his fucking hands clasped at his shins, scarred and etched, red and cold, nipped white by the wind and by his own grip. 

That raw nerve in Ian’s mouth sends a resounding thud through his entire body. Leaning back against the broken drywall and sliding until his butt hits the broken cement of the cold frozen floor. His arm against Mickey’s, but nothing else. Nothing else.

“Fuck,” it’s all he can get past that throbbing nerve in his mouth as it pulsates with a fresh zap of pain through his entire fucking body from the contact point. 

Fuck. Last night. Last night, “fuck,” it hitches in his chest and blurs in his head but it’s so fucking clear in his lids when he blinks and it forces his face to turn, turn and land in that black and silver hair. He’s not wearing a hat. His hair is frozen. His ears must be tingling by now with the first nip of frostbite. And his fingers. His fingers. Unconsciously his hands rise, slide over Mickey’s where they’re not going to release each other any time soon, and he knows, but he’s okay with that. He is here to shield. Not to force.

‘Would you at least look at me?’ 

It echoes around in his ears and his heart lurches itself to his ears. Last night. Last night Mickey was sitting on his lap, he was warm and lax and pliable and everything that embodied calm and ready. And he was kissing, he was controlled, and even, and passionate without scorching them both. And he was ready. He was ready. And they had already been there for an eternity just kissing and touching and feeling and allowing things to crash and roll and push and pull between them on the bed. 

It was Mickey who led Ian’s hand, who put his finger against his ass and nodded against his lips and it was Mickey who was in control and taking the lead and he was controlled and his entire world was okay when Ian pressed inside him with one finger. And he breathed, his lips left Ian’s but stayed close, ‘okay?’ Ian had wondered, he had wondered against his lips and Mickey had nodded. Ian opened his mouth, he was going to keep talking, going to keep talking to keep Mickey’s mind with him, to guide his thoughts towards his voice even though he didn’t know what to say and he knew Mickey would rib him for getting all chatty in the sack, but he knew, knew that Mickey needed a constant reminder, constant reminder of where he was. Even if he was the one in the power position, perched on Ian’s lap with his hands on his shoulders and he easily had the escape route whenever he needed it. And the light was on and Ian was drinking in every single feature of his gorgeous face and letting the reflection of lights caress his senses and hold his senses on Mickey, to read him like braille and hear him like his breathing was the only sound on this Earth. And his breathing was normal, it was normal and it was calm and it was fine. It was all fine. 

And then there was a thump. A thump from somewhere in the house, somewhere inside the house and it was just Mandy or Luna or Iggy. But it was Terry and it was prison and it was every single thing that turned Mickey to the bottle, and the needle, and the powder, and eventually the gun. 

Every single ounce of control in Ian’s body to stay where he was, instead of running to the sound and letting his frustration, his built up frustration boil over, take it out on that sound, that one accidental sound from one single person or dog who had no intention of causing what they caused.

With every single thing inside Ian’s body wanting to rage, and every single thing in Mickey’s body shutting down and shutting out the world by covering his ears with his hands and closing his eyes and crumbling in on himself on Ian’s lap. There was nothing, nothing he could do to get him to come back to him, no amount of speaking and comforting and touching and holding, he couldn’t get that loud part of Mickey’s memories to shut off, to quiet down, he couldn’t get past that wall of panic and he was reduced to just rocking. Holding him against his body and rocking like a fucking lunatic, rocking back and forward on the bed with a full grown man in his arms. 

He never did fall asleep last night. And he feels it now. Like he’s walking through muck up to his knees and his arms are weighed down by a hundred pounds hanging off each fingertip. 

‘Would you at least look at me?’

It’s screaming off every single instant of brokenness around them and inside them. And Ian wants to kick himself in the fucking face for it. 

His hand rubs along Mickey’s cold one and aside from that tiny flicker of eye contact when he crested the stairs, he hasn’t looked at him. And Ian understands this time. And he won’t ask and he won’t demand but he will remind him, “I’m here,” and, “I love you,” and, “you are strong and brave and incredible.”

And he’ll wait. 

He waits in silence and stillness. He waits and listens. Listens to Mickey breathing and Mickey blinking, shifting, head dropping into his knees to hide and shut the world out. And that’s okay. That’s okay because he doesn’t need the world right now. He doesn’t need it with all it’s noise and sights and colors and feels. He doesn’t need that. What he needs is the stillness and the silence and the one person, the one person who can share that with him without pitying and without pushing. 

The silence and stillness that follows them home. Down the frosted sidewalks, through the cold air that stings their nostrils and mouths and lungs. Into the house with the silence and stillness as the first bits of frostbite have settled against their bare spots, warm water would only exacerbate the pricks and burns of frost. Silence and stillness as they both undress, as they slide into bed, under the sheet and blanket and comforter and quilt. Silence and stillness as they wrap around each other and breathe each other’s warm breath and taste each other’s bare skin and share the sparks of heat and electricity that are maybe the only things they’ve ever done right in the only moments they’ve had that have ever been right. 

—————

It’s midday when he wakes in a layer of sweat and the feel of Mickey’s eyes scorching his flesh. His eyes flicker open before Mickey’s can flit away, his hand sliding over that sunken cheek, that he prays to every fucking god he doesn’t believe in will one day fill out to how it used to be. Nothing else can ever be the same as it used to be, nothing can, and that’s okay, that’s fucking fine, he understands that. The miles behind them are behind them whether they were together for it or not. 

His hand is cold on Ian’s ribs, eyes are locked and not going anywhere as he whispers, “sorry.”

Fuck, he wants to shake him, he wants to shake the insecurity and fear out of him, the fear of walking away, of Ian walking away again when things get rough, and he can’t fucking bear that. Fuck, he wants to kiss him, he wants to kiss him long and hard and dirty until they can’t avoid the fucking and the loving and holding. Fuck.

Instead, instead of doing all the things they’ve always done wrong and avoiding all the things they never fixed the first time around, instead of turning Mickey into a warm body and making him think that’s all he’ll ever be; he lifts his hand. First to his lips, pressing a long tender kiss into his palm. Holding it there until the heat of his breath has filtered into the first layer of Mickey’s skin. Then he flattens it, straightens Mickey’s arm, rests it on his hip, palm up. Beginning with a gentle pressure from the heel of his hand down his thumb, rolling between his fingers the emotions he wants Mickey to feel leaving him without speaking. Drawing tension from his wrist to his thumb. Pointer finger, palm to pointer finger for fear, drawing the fear out of his fingertip. Middle finger for hurt and anger. He carries on, each finger, both hands. Touch. It is touch that Mickey has never been able to decipher as anything more than a means to sex. And his hands, fuck, his hands that Ian has seen and felt do so many things that never another hand has done. 

He watches his lids roll shut, letting himself give in. Give in to the stimulation, to the gentle pressure, to the massage, the human touch that won’t lead to sex, it won’t lead to violence, it won’t lead to a fucking thing more than this. This. Touch. 

He’s not going to allow it, not today, he’s not going to allow all the instances of touch that have been no more than pain for this body.  
“Hands today,” he hears himself whisper, “feet tomorrow, then legs, arms, shoulders, neck. I’m going to get you so used to touch that you won’t know how to shrug it off anymore,” feeling his face lift into a half smile when Mickey’s eyes move beneath his lids, “but you can shrug it off. Whenever you want. It won’t hurt my feelings. Not at all.”

——————

Maybe it takes more like a week on each body group. And that’s just fucking fine. And maybe it takes two months before he’s only clad in boxers and lying on his back, one arm behind his head, tilted to watch Ian’s face while he works at his legs. He’s got a calmness in his features that Ian has never seen before. It steals his breath and he has to fight himself not to climb on, not to settle over him and slide between his legs. 

They haven’t fucked. Not since before the last breakdown. And that’s just fucking fine too. Yes, it was incredible the handful of times he’s bottomed for Mickey, but maybe they went about it wrong, they let the passion blur the lines and they let the themselves rush into something, some intimacy that maybe Mickey wasn’t ready for, and sure, Ian wants to do it again. Fuck, he wants to do a million times, he wants to spend the rest of his life fucking this man in any capacity he’ll allow, but this, getting him used to intimacy and human touch even on the painful parts, even lingering on his shoulders. He’ll linger, as soon as Mickey is okay with laying face-down and letting him touch and feel and push into those muscles that are under those scars, those bite scars, he’s going to. He’s going to linger. Because pain is part of life, the pain of those scars, fuck, they only mean he’s still here, he’s still alive. He’s still in his mind and in his body. 

His hands glance over the boxers, sliding up to his pelvis, the knobs that Ian has felt so many times but never enough times, under his hands. Leaning over him, knees planted on the edge of the bed, fuck, this is one he should have looked up. How the fuck is he supposed to massage his abdomen? That seems dangerous if he does it wrong.

Doesn’t help that a smirk is rising on his face, the longer Ian stands there with his palms on his pelvis and his eyes lingering on his flat stomach. Taking note of the muscle lines starting to carve their way back into his body. Sure, he’s still thin, his face is still way too bony, but his body is starting to shape back up to look like a healthy human’s body. He wondered the other day about running, if that ‘shit actually made a fuckin’ difference or some fuck'. Ian told him he had to gain at least ten more pounds and stick to walking until he could even attempt running. How quickly that would deplete him of calories that he needs to hang onto to maintain a healthy weight. Fuck. 

“What?” he finally wonders when he sees Mickey’s lips rising to a full fledged smirk. It catches in his throat, he’s not seen it, it’s the first time he’s seen this, this exact expression on his face, the first time he’s seen it since they were kids. Fuck, they were kids. 

His head tilts, chin dipping and his eyebrow arching, “ain’t gonna suck itself Gallagher.”

Snorting out a laugh at himself, he was so concerned about how to touch his body that he forgot to even think about that particular part of his body. His head drops, attempting to hide the blush he can feel rising, dips into his chest, layering kisses on his surgery scar, following the trail down his center, burying his nose in his bellybutton as his lips linger on his lower stomach and his hands start to slowly pull his boxers down. Mickey lifts his butt willingly, letting them slide off without much fuss. 

And suddenly this feels okay, this feels natural, this feels like he can do this without overthinking it and without breaking the gates of passion, overdoing it, and taking it too far. Fuck, his hand is already slippery with the massage oils, well, fuck it, might as well massage his balls. As long as he doesn’t mind.

Judging by the quiet grunt that parts his lips, he doesn’t mind one bit. Ian can feel his eyes on the top of his head, his hand slow to follow but it does. It lingers, sliding in and out of Ian’s hair tenderly. Fuck, it feels good to have this man in his mouth, it feels good to have his hand on his hair and listen to his breath, to know he’s here, he’s right here. Mind and body. He’s not retreating to a safe place. He’s not covering his ears and closing his eyes. 

Jesus Christ, it feels so good to have him in his mouth that he’s pretty damn near jizzing himself by the time he picks up the pace to drag that orgasm out of Mickey. Fuck it, he is going to jizz himself and he’s got a free hand, might as well put it to use. In perfect synchronization, the way it’s always been.

“The fuck was that firecrotch?” comes crashing over his reverie. 

“Uh, a blowjob.”

“You,” brows up and it feels like relief every single fucking time, “coulda let me give you a hand at least.”

“Didn’t need one,” he laughs, trailing kisses up Mickey’s center, over the scars, up his neck, leaning over him and lingering forehead to forehead. Letting the feel of him, the heat of him, the sound of him, invade his every sense and every corridor of his mind. A deep breath, “I love you,” stroking a slippery hand through his hair, waiting for the face to tilt, waiting for the opening, the okay, the permission to press into his lips. His perfect lips that send that hummingbird in Ian’s stomach into a frenzy, a welcome frenzy, a comfortable frenzy. Exactly the way his lips have always stirred his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing about PTSD - it never goes away. Just like any other disorder, you learn it, you do what you can to avoid your triggers and deal with your reactions, and sometimes even that isn't enough and neither is the voice outside of your head reminding you of where you are. 
> 
> Starting to feel like we're getting pretty damn close to breakthrough...


	44. See Me

See Me

 

Ian’s hands are warm. Gentle. Slippery with massage oil and he was pretty much right. Stubborn fucker, he’s getting used to this. Touching. It’s starting to feel okay, like something he can rely on. And sure, fuck, it ends in a lot of hand jobs and blow jobs but not every time. Sometimes the fucker just rubs his shoulders, leans his face against one or the other for awhile and breathes there like he’s gonna leave his own mark over the scar. And sometimes that feeling, that feeling of someone’s mouth bein’ there, sometimes it don’t feel so bad, it don’t cut through his body like a damn knife of cold fear. 

“Fuck,” but now his hands are on Mickey’s thighs and it sure in the fuck is makin’ his body all tingly and shit. Face down in the middle of the damn bed. Head turned towards the window side. They’re home alone. It’s gonna stay that way. Mandy’s been spendin’ more and more nights at Trent’s place, he’s ain’t sure when it’s gonna become permanent but he’s sure it’ll be sometime soon and he ain’t sure how he’s gonna function without that damn mutt being stuck to him like glue, but fuck, his eyes sting a little at the thought so he shifts his focus. Those hands, “fuck,” those hands are so gentle and tender. Putting just the right amount of pressure on his legs and he’s certain the fucker’ll be pretendin’ his ass don’t exist here in a minute and he’ll skip right over it to his back. And, “fuck,” that feels good. It feels fucking good, but he don’t want him to skip over his ass. Not right now. 

Well, it ain’t like Ian’s gonna do it himself, him and his damn waiting for permission for every single fucking move he makes. So Mickey does, he reaches back and slides his boxers down, slithering his way out of them, kicking them off to the side. Settling back in, facing the door this time. ‘Cause, sure, they’re home alone and Iggy’s off to wherever the fuck he is and the dumb fucker at least knocks nowadays when he is home, but, fuck, he’s facin’ the damn door ‘cause old habits die hard. 

Ian’s paused, he’s certain he’s wearing some stupid dopey insecure expression like he ain’t sure if he s’posed to get on him, or give his asscheeks a rubdown. 

“Fuck, Ian, just,” sliding up on his knees, “it ain’t gonna fuck itself.”

“Fuck, I…” he starts, “fuck, you sure?”

“That it ain’t gonna fuck itself? Uh yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure of that.”

“No,” damn lame ass giggle, his knees coming down on the bed behind him, “I mean,” clearing his throat, “wait, no. Lay back down. I want to take this really fucking slow.”

“Lay back down?”

“Yeah, just let me, just let, fuck,” he’s all breathy, “fuck Mick, you’re gorgeous and now I can’t focus. Like at all,” but his damn mouth makes contact with Mickey’s asscheek, leaving a lip print over one of the bite scars, “just, um, lay back down. We’re going to start with touch, remember?”

Impatience is starting to bubble, taking a deep breath to force that shit down, knowing Ian is right. But he sure in the shit ain’t gonna vocalize that, “okay firecrotch. Show me what you got then.”

—————

So maybe he shouldn’t have challenged the fucker. Fuck. This is, fuck, this is, “fuck,” between his hands and his mouth and his tongue and his fucking overly gentle fuckin’, “fuck,” everything. Sweat has risen on every single inch of his body and the fucker ain’t even knuckle deep yet. Fucking tease. Lips and tongue, his hands working against his asscheeks like he’ll be able to press his fingerprints over top of all the scars, even the damn faded pellets that linger like shadows of their interwoven past that can’t ever be unwoven, ain’t like a pull the string on the sweater kind of thing. Fuck. Jesus, fuck. 

“Fuck, okay, fuck, I give, fuck me. Fuck me now.”

“Mm mm,” it’s all muffled into his asscrack and his finger is just sort of resting there like it ain’t sure if it’s gonna go in or just sit there for the rest of their damn lives.

“Fine, give me a fuckin’ finger then, fucker.”

“Getting there.”

His damn words vibrating down his asscrack sends a fucking chill ripping up his spine and his pelvis responds by pushing back against his face, must be the right damn response to get that damn finger, ‘cause he sure does, “that wasn’t so fuckin’ hard was it?”

“No, but my dick is.”

Snorting out a laugh, knowing the fucker is probably going to keep talking, even if Mickey ain’t listenin’, he’s going to want him to keep hearin’ him and him only. Like if his words can silence all the shit, “shit,” that ain’t risin’, no. That ain’t risin’. Nope, it’s not. It’s stayin’ away, his eyes open, craning his neck to look back at Ian. Keep him in sight.

His brows dip in concern when the contact is made and he wonders gently, “want to lay on your back?”

“Yeah,” it sort of shakes, but only a little. Just a tiny bit. Just enough to make Ian back away and wait for him to turn. His fuckin’ eyes don’t leave Mickey’s, they don’t look at the fuckin’ train-wreck on his chest. Fuck, the light should be off, it should have been off all this fuckin’ time, all the massages and shit, it should have been off. Fuck, how the fuck could his body possibly be attractive anymore? That is fuckin’…

“Gorgeous,” the dumb fucker leans onto the bed, his weight familiar. The way it moves the mattress when his knees are between Mickey’s knees and his hands are landing on the bed beside his hips and he’s leaning over him, “you are so fucking gorgeous,” and his mouth is making contact with his stomach. His bellybutton, taking the trail down to his dick and sliding over the head of it. 

His hair, Mickey’s eyes land on his hair and he’s glad for the light. He’s glad for the light reflecting off the fire, the fire he’s never seen anyfuckingwhere else in his life. The fire that his hand is rising and falling into, the strands familiar under his touch, the softness and coarseness and silky feel between his fingers.

He takes a deep breath, letting the feeling sink in slowly. First the feel of his weight on the bed. The feel of his hair. The feel of his mouth. He takes it all in slowly, the same speed Ian is moving. Little bits at a time. His dick from tip to base being steadily engulfed in the heat of his mouth. His right hand moving away from the bed, fingers trialing across his hip, down to meet his balls, taking both of them in his palm and holding them like they’re the fuckin’ finest thing he’s ever touched. Fucker. 

He hears his breath choke off but it ain’t for fear or nothin’, it’s for pleasure. It’s for that tingle and that chill that are chasing each other up his spine when Ian’s left hand finds it’s way under Mickey’s leg and Mickey bends his knees, giving him the right angle and the okay, that okay to progress. 

In through his nose. Out through his mouth. Breathing. Breathing it all in. Breathing in the scent of Ian and the scent of his bedroom and the scent of the oils that the fucker has been goin’ through like fuckin’ Kleenex since he started this damn touching mission. One finger, and it’s okay, one finger slips inside and it’s warm and it’s slick with lube and it’s okay. And it ain’t prison. It ain’t nothin’ like prison. It’s Ian. It is Ian. It is Ian with his mouth on his dick, his right hand grasping his balls, and his left pointer finger slowly mapping out it’s perfected arch inside Mickey’s body. An arching he’s always known, he’s always done, a familiar arch to a familiar finger and a deep breath. His mouth slides up Mickey’s dick, tilting his head until his green eyes meet his and ask him without asking him, ‘this okay?’

And he nods. ‘Cause it is. It’s okay, it’s fine, it’s just fuckin’ fine. The sheet beneath him, the man over him, half over him. The sound of his mouth as he moves up and down on Mickey’s cock. The sound of his hand working over Mickey’s balls until the lube cap snaps when he flips it open, right hand squeezing out an excess amount on his left, working it up his fingers and all around Mickey’s asshole. 

“Go ‘head,” he hears himself give through a whisper, green sea of dewy grass meeting his gaze again. Staying, staying on his face while that second finger works it’s way in beside the first. 

Deep breath. Ian’s right hand depositing the lube bottle close beside him, he’s going to use that whole damn thing in one night isn’t he? His fingers trailing up Mickey’s hip, over his stomach, across his scarred mutilated disgusting chest, and finding his hand. The one that’s been grasping the sheet beside him, finding that hand, and pressing his fingers between them until Mickey gives, until he spreads his fingers and lets Ian link them. And stay. 

He breathes, feeling his hair, feeling his hand, feeling his mouth, feeling the familiarity of it all, and his eyes close. They close. And the swirling is calm, it’s relaxing, it’s smooth. The fingers inside him are slow, tender, delicately sweeping along that spot, the one Ian has always been so good at finding. It tingles up his spine and settles in the back of his mouth and it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s more than okay.

It’s more than okay, it’s, “I ain’t gonna last if you don’t get a move on tough guy.”

His fingers don’t stop, but his mouth slides up Mickey’s dick and releases it, letting it fall against his stomach as his lips meet his bellybutton, “that’s fine. If you want this to be all, if this is as far as you want to take it today, that’s fine. Just…”

“No,” it’s a sigh, his eyes rolling open to find Ian’s again, “I want to have sex. Today. Right now. Before I bust a nut down your throat.”

“And you want?” his expression is soft, his face hovering over Mickey’s stomach as he watches him.

“To bottom. I want to bottom.”

“Okay,” those fingers inside him are still sweeping against that spot and he’s starting to feel weak as hell, tender, and yearning for more, “but if…”

“I’ll say stop if I have to.”

Fuckin’ overly worried fucker. Him and his goddamn words, and his goddamn communication, and his goddamn dialogue. Fuck him. Some weird fuckin’ noise exits Mickey's mouth that he wasn’t expectin’ when Ian’s fingers slide out, the fucker’s eyes dart away from the lube bottle and the task at hand to meet Mickey’s, but he ain’t all knit in concern. Not now. The fuckin’ smug confidence is startin’ to take over his features and suddenly he’s the boy standin’ in the middle of the club with all the lights and noises and the safety. The safety, “fuck, c’mere,” cocking his head to draw the fucker down to his lips. ‘Cause he’ll play along with some of this fuckin’ dialogue that Ian has all mapped out to maximize the consensual experience or some fuck, but he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna say somethin’ as stupid as, ‘put your dick in my ass’ or fuckever shit he’s s’posed to say at this point. And he sure in the fuck ain’t gonna admit that he needs this, he needs the passion and lust of his kisses, of his lips on his and his breath in his mouth, and the heat and moisture of his tongue; he needs the kisses, he needs the kisses to keep him right here, to keep him right here on this bed in this room in Ian’s familiar embrace, with one hand in his and his familiar weight over him and around him. He needs the kiss, he needs it, he needs it as Ian’s right hand is sliding lube all over his dick and slowly, so slowly, so gently, so hesitantly pressing it inside Mickey’s body. 

He needs the kisses to keep him here when his eyes pinch shut and Ian stops moving. When he’s half in and half wrecked and something weird comes out of Mickey’s mouth again and it gets tangled up on Ian’s tongue, and it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s fine. And he nods anyway, just in case Ian is thinkin’ it’s a not okay noise. He feels his legs bent, wrapped around Ian’s ass, putting the pressure on, coaxing the feeling of fullness that he’s been craving as much as he’s been fuckin’ terrified of. But it’s Ian. It is Ian. It is clearly Ian when he’s slowly pushing inside and his breath is all over Mickey’s mouth and his hand is clamped in his, and his other hand is sliding across Mickey’s jaw.   
A deep breath, another deep breath as he bottoms out and Mickey’s eyes are plastered shut. HIs free hand rising, and not for his asscheek or his hair or his hand or shoulder-blade. His hand is rising and landing on his face, on his jaw. Feeling the way it’s working for that kiss, feeling it under his hand, against his fingers. His jaw. Ian’s jaw. Because everything else in this world could convince him otherwise, but his hand on Ian’s jaw will never be anything else, it can never be anything more or less than Ian’s jaw. 

When he leans out of the kiss, Mickey knows it’s to look at his face, it’s to get a full picture of how he’s feeling, if he’s still okay with this, he’s probably going to ask, he’s probably going to start talking. But Mickey’s hand slides over his face, his lips, his nose, his chin. Ian’s face. Ian’s face. Connecting his body and his mind and his soul to Ian’s face. Grounding without opening his eyes, without speaking, without thinking. Ian’s face. 

He feels his own breath when it exits his lips, meeting the back of his hand as his fingers slide across Ian’s bottom lip. He wonders, just for a moment, just for one moment, not long enough to go further, not long enough to wander anywhere further, he wonders for just one moment how every single other person he’s fucked or been fucked by, he’s never kissed and caressed and breathed on. He’s never felt anyone else’s face with his hands and fingers, he’s never known how anyone else’s jaw moves beneath his touch, he’s never done that. But Ian, he has always known, always known the way Ian feels beneath his hands. From that boy in the dugout to that boy in the club to that young man in his bed to the man now, the man now. The man now who is leaning over him, barely moving his hips and somehow drawing every ounce of blood to the surface, every zap of nerves, every tingle of passion, it’s all there, every instance of it, it’s all there for this, for just this. 

When his breath catches this time it ain’t for fear or nerves, it ain’t for flashbacks and memories that linger and pull and tug. When his breath catches this time, it’s for love. It’s for safety. It’s for comfort. It’s for touch. And it’s okay. It’s all okay.

And when his eyes flicker open, they land immediately on those eyes, those eyes, those eyes that have always been the same eyes even when they were depressed and manic and running away. The same eyes, the same eyes that looked at him through the glass and looked at him on the couch that morning and watched him through the Alibi and saw him walk down the aisle. The same eyes that found him dying on the floor one day. The eyes that have looked at him, looked at him, looked at him and saw him, saw him, those eyes saw him and only him ever since. They haven’t stopped seeing him through the panic and the terrors and the days upon days in bed, they haven’t stopped seeing him through the physical rehabilitation and the emotional rollercoaster, they haven’t stopped seeing him even when he couldn’t see himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that is starting to feel like relief.


	45. Blue

Blue

 

Every single thing inside of Ian’s body feels raw, ruined, wind savaged and scorched as his shaking hand rises to smudge a lone tear from the corner of Mickey’s eye. His lids pinched shut tight, breathing evening back out, body slowly falling into the mattress beneath him. Ian’s nose nudges against Mickey’s, reminding him he’s here, he’s here and he’s not going anywhere, “I love you.”

Blue eyes flickering open, gracing the surface of Ian’s for only a moment, just one, but enough, enough to know he’s fine. His hand has dropped from Ian’s jaw, slid down his chest and the pressure is starting, just a little, just that tiny push. 

A breath that barely passes Ian’s throat as he starts to untangle himself from Mickey’s body, watching his face for any discomfort when he pulls out. The expression shifts, his breath moves and Ian plants a kiss on his chest, just one. 

Watching his face, calm, relaxed, open. Softness, there is softness on his face and his body is lax. His hand clamps down on Ian’s wrist when he starts tenderly wiping the residue off his belly. It holds, but doesn’t push or pull, just that little bit of control, that little bit of knowing he has a say in every action, every touch, every part of his surface now, tonight and for the rest of their lives together. 

Ian settles beside him, not touching, propping his head on his elbow to watch him in this state. Unguarded. Lying flat on his back, every instance of his flesh visible, drawing the light to his skin and the shadows to his scars, those reminders that the past is real. 

He’s at his target healthy weight, but the doctor is wrong about him, he should have at least ten more, maybe twenty more pounds on his frame. Fuck, if he had thirty even, if he was the most beautiful picture of overindulgence. An image of him lying in a bed of fluffy pillows surrounded by trays of delicate foods, and, “I want to feed you.”

It takes a second, almost long enough that Ian’s uncertain if that came out of his mouth, and glad that maybe it didn’t. But then Mickey’s face screws up, eyes open, one brow up, “huh?”

He takes the chance, watching his hand rise off the mattress between them and land on Mickey’s arm, fingers crawling slowly over his warm pale flesh reflecting the yellow hues of the bedroom lamp.

“That’s a really fuckin’ weird thing to say Gallagher.”

A smile rises on his face and he starts shifting, making his way slowly across the bed, to lean over Mickey’s warm, sweat-filmed body, “it was,” agreeing as his hand slides through Mickey’s damp hair, silver and black, and fucking gorgeous, “pamper you. The whole fucking weekend.”

“Wasn’t the whole fucking months of that shit enough? Ya know,” his finger rises and taps down on his chest.

“That’s different,” he shrugs, “I want you to choose it, I want you to let me pamper you.”

“The fuck you think I am firecrotch? You gonna fuckin’ fan me with palm leaves or some shit too? Feed me grapes off the vine?” he’s settling into the pillow behind him and his hand is rising, this time not for Ian’s chest, not for the push or shove, this time it’s sliding across his shoulder, landing on his back and pulling him close.

“If you’d let me.”

“Fuck you.”

“I know,” angling his face over Mickey’s, taking a long moment to enjoy and appreciate every single feature, up close, this close, fuck, this close, he is, “so fucking gorgeous.”

“Fuck you.”

“I know. But wouldn’t it be nice to be doted on? You know, when neither of us need it, when it’s just a day of being lazy, lounging in bed when it’s a choice and…”

“Keep dreamin’ tough guy.”

“I don’t need to dream,” sighing, snaking one hand under Mickey’s pillow and the other under his back, “you are my dream.”

Before he can respond, Ian leans in, pressing his smile against Mickey’s lips. Not dipping or diving, just lingering, waiting. Knowing he’s fucking exhausted and he’s just pushed through the first layer of that brick wall in their sex life, and he’s held himself together and allowed Ian to hold him together, and fuck, he’s, “strong, you are so fucking strong,” it’s mumbled against his lips where he just barely has parted them, “brave,” sliding his tongue along Mickey’s lower lip, “so fucking brave,” meeting his tongue when it passes his teeth, “and loved,” taking a moment to trace his upper lip before meeting his tongue again, “so fucking loved,” pressing his lips over Mickey’s to muffle any ‘fuck you’ that’s trying to make it’s way past them. 

When he rolls to his shoulder he doesn’t break the kiss, drawing Ian closer to him, letting him wrap around his naked body and lean against his bare flesh, letting him shield his back and maintain the touch, the feel, the overpowering and unbreakable bond that has always existed between them even through the years apart, even through bars and glass and silence. This, right here, this feeling like every single fucking thing in this world is right, is okay, is perfect; this feeling that only exists when this man is in his arms and against his body, when his ribs are moving slowly and evenly, when his heart is beating a strong steady rhythm under Ian’s palm, when his back is against his stomach and his bare ass is against his groin, when his knees are bent to lock exactly in with Ian’s, and his lips; when his lips are against Ian’s and they’re getting lazy, open mouthed and sloppy, when his eyes are closed but not to close out the world. Eyes closed because he can feel this, he can feel every single instance of this and not fear a single damn thing, he can feel it with his eyes closed and his guard down and his armor laying in a rusty pile on the floor. He can feel it. He can feel all of it. Until his head gets heavy and he’s no longer kissing Ian back at all. He can feel all of it. Until Ian draws back and his mouth remains lazily open, leaning in to nudge his nose against Mickey’s as his head turns, cheek settling against the pillow. Ian trails a gentle path across his cheek, his jaw, that delicate meeting of his jaw and his neck. Taking a deep breath, and burying his nose there. In that never replicated scent that Ian never could forget. No matter how much time passed without seeing him. Fuck, his arms wrap tight but not too tight, his breath shakes and he feels a silent tear falling from his eye, traveling down his cheek and soaking into Mickey’s hair, “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone else and I never will,” another tear rolls away from him and he lets it, “I couldn’t bear to be without you.”

—————

The scent remains but the man is gone when Ian wakes in the morning. Judging by the amount of Spring sunshine seeping through the thin curtains, it’s late morning. Rolling to his back to stretch, fuck, he slept like a damn dead person. First time since he came in that door to find that man bleeding out on the floor, first time he’s slept soundly. Soundly enough that he didn’t even feel him leave the mattress. Taking a deep breath, a slow wave of panic rises when he doesn’t hear anything at all in the house. It’s rolling into his mouth and sparking in his eyes but his body isn’t responding yet, it’s not getting up, it’s not…

“Fuck, motherfuckin’ piss drinkin’ cocksuckin’ piece of…”

A laugh escapes him, hand falling to cover his face, his heart beating in his ears starting to draw back, starting to recede back where it belongs. He’s fine. He’s more than fine. 

The door squeaks open, his feet padding across the floor, and his weight landing hesitantly on the bed draws Ian’s attention. 

“You,” hand dragging across his face to scrub the last of sleep off, “are a dick.”

His smile is a little shy around the edges and it’s maybe, no, it’s definitely the most adorable fucking thing Ian has ever seen. Setting a full tray of breakfast food on the middle of the bed, “yeah, well, how you gonna feed me if there ain’t any food ‘cause your lazy ass overslept?”

“Holy fuck Mick, did you actually cook this or did you have Ms Bodnar come over and sneak her out already?”

“Fuck you. Think I ain’t payin’ attention when she’s shuffling around the kitchen? Back before Mom died, we used to go over there every weekend morning for breakfast. Old bitch used to make us boys cook ‘cause she said we couldn’t just bring good looks and dirty hands to the table.”

“So you’ve been holding out on me? You’ve been able to cook since you were a damn kid, and this is the first time…”

“Well it ain’t like we ever had a stocked fridge of anything more than beer, man, come on. Fuckin’ eat before it gets cold.”

It hasn’t slipped his attention that his shot glass of meds is sitting on the tray, next to the strawberry jam stuffed pancakes and the, “halusky, right?”

“Lazy dumplings,” he stabs one with a fork and has the damn nerve to hold it out to Ian.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” it’s so good, it’s, “fucking incredible Mick.”

And holy fuck, his cheeks are turning pink. Mickey’s cheeks are turning pink, and if Ian thought his shy smile was the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, fuck, he was wrong, “yeah, well, I also work at a fuckin’ hipster bakery roastery library. Ain’t like I don’t learn nothing there either.”

“Clearly not grammar,” he smirks at him and when his hand rises to flip him off, he grabs it, bringing it to his lips, “thank you, but you really didn’t have to…”

“When neither of us need it, right?”

A smile is rising, his eyes are twinkling and fuck, he is everything. He is everything. And if Ian wasn’t so fucking hungry and the food wasn’t so fucking incredible, he’d be swiping it off the bed to make a full course meal of Mickey instead. He sighs, looking at the expression on his face, expression, fuck he loves the expressions that face makes and he loves that he’s not thinking them through, he’s not forcing them to rise, he’s not forcing a single fucking thing in this life, in this life right now. Sure, it’ll never be easy, not like it was, or maybe it never was, maybe it only seemed easy back then because they were hopeful kids; but now, right now and always, it’ll be together and that’s all that fucking matters. Maybe that’s all that ever mattered. He smiles when he watches Mickey’s gorgeous mouth take a bite of the pancake, only to have the red jam smear out around his mouth and get streaked across his lips when he tries to lick it off. Red. Cupid and the devil. Passionate, intense love. Anger and violence. 

His eyes rise to meet that sea and sky of possibilities written across Mickey’s irises. Blue. Blue, so fucking blue. And he can’t remember when exactly that worn, fogged over beach glass blue was rubbed down, leaving the bright clarity exposed to him now. Blue. Depth, trust, and loyalty. 

“Hey Mick?” wondering softly, feeling a smile spreading across his face, eyes unable to look away from the heaven he’s found in that man’s gaze.

“Yah?”

“I love you.”

His cheek is packed full of food and his hand is rising, burned, sliced, chewed off flesh and for a moment, for just one moment it’s FUCK that’s rising when that finger flies. Only a flash of a moment but it doesn’t hurt. The scars are the reminders long after the pain has subsided. And that’s okay. 

Grabbing for his hand in the air between them, bringing it to his lips and keeping it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of hurried through posting these ones today to get them out before the weekend. Sorry if the editing is shit. But I'm getting chicken shit about this one - trying to remind myself that insecurity stifles creativity. Also I wanted to get here and let any of you that got behind have the weekend to catch up. 
> 
> Let me know if there is anything in particular you want to see from this fic. I have one more chapter in mind from Mandy's POV to kind of wrap things up in this timeframe. I feel like Mickey and Iggy both got some closure with Terry and I'm not sure there can be closure with Mandy and Terry. Other than that it seems like all the relationships are in a good place right now. I'm starting to have a vague picture of a career path, but not entirely sure yet.
> 
> Then I was thinking I'd do a flash forward and let Mickey have his Lake Pontchartrain trip. Definitely want to send this battle-worn bloodstained pirate ship off into the great blue yonder before it's overturned in a sea of fluff where I will hop aboard a circus train along the coast or a catamaran in the Dominican ;)
> 
> Alrighty me hearties, thanks for boarding this vessel with me!


	46. We Can't Ever Forget That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A final installment from Mandy during this timeframe, then we'll skip forward to close it out.

We Can’t Ever Forget That

 

Mandy tosses her purse at the table in the entryway, knowing Ian can see it as it slides aggressively across the surface and knocks into the basket of keys and random boy shit that just seems to breed in their pockets, knowing that watching it jiggle and skid to the edge makes him hurt down to his very core. But Mandy just sometimes wants him to hurt down to his very core. Especially today. Today Mandy wants everyone to hurt down to their very core. Tossing her overnight bag at the base of the stairs, stepping out of her shoes and watching her traitor of a dog run across the floor with her tail wagging, darting directly for Mickey, climbing onto his lap to shower his face with kisses. 

Fine, she takes that back, that thing about wanting everyone to hurt. Not him, he doesn’t count. Even if her dog loves him more and her best friend loves him more and her damn brothers all love him more and everyone in this damn world loves him more, because, well, who the fuck wouldn’t?

“Fuck’s with you?” it’s mostly muffled because apparently Luna can’t get off his face.

She shrugs, taking in the stance of each man on the couch. And yeah, the three of them are sitting on the fucking couch together. Like there’s not another chair in the fucking place. Iggy draped half over one arm of it, chewing on a callous on his palm while he watches the ‘Hawks game like it’s not a bunch of sweaty padded up men skating around after a tiny black disk, he’s watching it like it’s a bunch of naked women instead. His hand is removed from his mouth only to throw a pillow at the TV, “fuckin’ dangler, dodgin’ coat hangers for the first nine months o’ his life.”

Mickey’s wearing a smirk, scratching Luna’s ears, eyes lazily flitting back and forth from the TV to Mandy, waiting for her to answer. And Ian, that fucker, sometimes she just wants to wrap her hands around his neck for that fucking look of concern he’s wearing right now, that stupid look that always flashes at times like this when it can slice right through her tough outer layer and make her want to disintegrate into a ball of tears and snot. Maybe it’s the way a mom looks at her kid, not that she would fucking know, she doesn’t remember Nadiya, not enough to remember concerned-mom looks. Fuck him.

She looks away, taking the steps over and lodging herself between her brothers on the couch, a couch that really doesn’t fit four people, and it’s evident in Iggy’s grumbled protests and Mickey’s unwillingness to move until she grinds her butt bone into his thigh, “bitch,” under his breath, sliding over, probably grinding his butt bone into Ian’s thigh judging by the way he squirms before his arm stretches across the back of the couch, hand landing on Mickey’s head for a moment. Fuck them and all their cute fucking garbage.

They let her stew in silence, aside from cursing out every player on the Wings line up, the stench of three men wafting around her every time one of them moves. Until the second period of the game is over and she’s just starting to settle, choosing Mickey’s shoulder for her cheek. Iggy is just the little bit more annoyingly tense all the time and now that Mickey’s not so bony his shoulder isn’t a bad place to rest. He sighs, wonders quietly, “we gotta dig a grave or what?”

“Been awhile since we dug a grave,” Iggy adds, “‘less you count the one for that fuckin’ thing Luna brought home t’ other day.”

Now Ian’s stupid face is leaning out, around Mickey and wondering gently, “should I get out the ice cream?”

“Fuckin’ right you should, smartest fuckin’ thing this prick has said all year,” Iggy nudges Mandy’s arm. 

And maybe Mickey debates for just an instant reaching over her to smack his arm, but eleven years of silence is a long fucking time so if Iggy wants to rib Ian for the next ten to make up for it, then that’s okay. 

“We’re outta syrup,” he’s back at that callous, “uh, and ice cream.”

“On it,” Ian sighs, turning to kiss Mickey’s temple before he gets to his feet. She fully expects Mickey to get up and leave with him, take her damn dog too, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even shift his way down the couch. 

The only move he makes is to lean his cheek on the top of her head, the contact forcing the words out of her mouth, “the asshole’s ex moved back to town and he wants to give it another shot with her.”

“Fuck him.”

“He ain’t good enough for you anyway.”

“I never liked ‘im.”

Her elbow meets Iggy’s side, “why the fuck does that always come out after the fact?”

“What? You want me to tell ya durin’ so you can get all fuckin’ defensive and shit?”

“Maybe.”

“Then next time I’ll tell ya. And you’ll get all defensive and shit.”

Clearly this is going nowhere. This time when Mickey shifts, Luna does too, ending up half in either lap and Iggy’s hand drops from his mouth, landing on her furry hip to thump a few times. 

“Don’ think ya need a dude Mandy.”

“Look where having a dude got Mom.”

“I’ll buy ya some batteries.”

“You can do our laundry and clean our piss dribbles off the toilet whenever you want.”

“We’ll burp and fart at ya.”

“Make plenty of messes for you to clean.”

“Work on yer car.”

“Fuck else is a guy good for?”

Tears are stinging at the back of her eyes, starting to spill over when she wonders, “what about when I need a hug?”

“Ask Ian,” responding in unison. But when a tear streams down her cheek, it’s Iggy’s gross hand that smears it across her face in the least gentle way possible and it’s Mickey’s arm that comes down around her shoulders, squeezing her tight against his side with a grunt, “fuck Trent. Guy’s got a stupid name anyway.”

“Stupid fuckin’ name.”

“Don’t believe us? Ask Franny all about proper names and shit. She’ll be here tomorrow. We’re takin’ her and Yev to Navy Pier. Wanna come? Only way Iggy gets to come, if you do, you know, proper adult to kid ratio.”

Iggy’s middle finger responds with him, “maybe I got shit goin’ on tomorrow.”

Mickey’s eyebrows call his bluff, “the fuck would you have goin’ on a Sunday?”

“Maybe I got church or some fuck.”

Mandy hears herself snort, “sniffin’ skirts in church?”

“It’s fuckin’ Spring, you know what that means? Short shorts and hard nipples through tiny shirts. Fuck. I’m in, get a good breeze off th’ lake in Spring, I can see the glass cutters from here.”

—————

The breeze off the lake is chilly, it smells like freshwater, boat fumes, and dead fish. The music, the noise of the crowd, the closeness of too many humans, it’s getting to Mickey and she can see it. But the feel of his son brushing up against his arm at every step and the feel of Ian’s hand on his lower back, those things, those are the small things that are keeping him moving slowly through the crowd instead of hightailing it back to the car to be alone and watch all this shit from afar with the safety of a cage around him. 

“You should get Luna certified,” Iggy tells her out of the corner of his mouth.

“Certified what?”

“Uh, therapy dog, like emotional support,” looking at her like she’s the dumbest piece of shit in the family, “then she’d be here an’ no one would think twice ‘bout it, givin’ ‘im dirty looks and shit for havin’ ‘er ‘cause she’d have a little vest thingy.”

And maybe she is the dumbest piece of shit in the family for not thinking of that sooner. 

—————

“Fuck’s this?” his brows are high and his eyes are locked onto the ball of fluff chewing on his shoelaces.

“Fuck’s it look like?”

“Looks like a puppy. I ain’t cleanin’ up piss off the floor for your damn dog.”

“Not mine Mick,” her hand comes down on his shoulder, “yours. Luna will help you train her. I signed you up for classes at the shelter, and your shrink can write you the letter to certify her when she’s ready.”

“You got me a fuckin’ puppy?” his thumb is rising and she knows it’s to nudge at his nose and try pushing back the sting of oncoming emotions that he’s never been and never will be good at just allowing to happen.

“Yeah,” leaning a cheek on his shoulder when he’s too busy chasing away tears to chase away her contact, “call it an early birthday present.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“Yep,” turning her face to wipe her own tears on his t-shirt sleeve, “but I’m yours,” whispering just barely audibly, “and you’re mine.”

And suddenly they’re back in the fort in the closest, wrapped in Grandma’s quilt, whispering about Ireland and birds and all the places they’ll never go and all the things they’ll never be, “and we can’t ever forget that,” his voice shakes out of his mouth, lingers in the space between them for just a moment like a cloud of misted breath in winter’s air before is settles, circling her ears, slowly making a path through every single memory, good and bad, together and separate, while her hand finds his at his side, slips between his fingers and grips tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right - the fuck does Mandy need a guy for?


	47. Won't Wait Long

Won’t Wait Long

 

******** Eight Years Later ********

 

Ian stops in the open doorway, taking a moment to take this all in. The sun setting lazily in the August sky over a lake in Louisiana, throwing sparkles across the glassy smooth surface, only interrupted by the lone fishing boat making it’s way back to shore. 

Everything turning into a watercolor painting, beautiful but muted, as soon as his eyes land in sharp focus on the man sitting on the end of the dock. His feet dangling in the water, gaze on the dog who is paddling back in with her ball in her mouth. His hands relaxed behind him, fingers barely bent and resting on the planks. His head tilts back, watching the sky beyond the gazebo of the house next door. A bright smear of golden yellow as orange stretches to pink and fades to purple along the horizon. 

A deep breath and the steps down from the house on stilts, ‘I’ve seen weirder fuckin’ shit Gallagher, but this is pretty fuckin’ weird,’ echoes in his head from when they pulled in the driveway of the vacation rental this morning. Ian wasn’t sure if he was talking about the stilts or the whole damn thing. The whole idea of a vacation, a place alone, a place as far removed from home as a person could get without skipping the country. A week, a full week to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Anything, everything, or nothing. It doesn’t matter. 

He’s certain to make some noise, clear his throat along his approach. Sure, the years have faded the fears, but they’ll always remain. He watches his head turn, the way the black absorbs it all and the silver holds the reflections of the sunset. He watches as his face becomes visible, color splashing across his pale skin, fingering the wrinkles around his eyes. Ian takes in the watery surface of his eyes, thinking there’s nothing on this earth that can be as vast and as blue as those eyes. 

He feels a smile rise on his face in response to the one that’s slowly rising on Mickey’s. A calm smile. The tenderness in his expression reserved only for Ian. The gaze holding, the expression remaining as he lowers himself beside him, letting his own feet dangle into the water beneath them. Making certain he’s close, close enough to touch, just in case Mickey wants the contact. But he doesn’t touch. He’ll wait. 

And he won’t wait long. He doesn’t have to anymore. Feeling the shift of his body, his warm body, his cold hand. His cold hand rising off the dock’s boards, tracing down Ian’s forearm, meeting his palm and slipping between his fingers. Three years and he’s still aware of the metal band on his finger every single time Mickey’s fingers lock into place. 

A smile. A smile that catches Ian’s breath in his throat, stirs that hummingbird in his guts, and makes him feel like he’s fucking floating. A smile that Ian will never tire of seeing. A smile that he wears now with ease, lifting their entwined fingers to his lips as his gaze shifts but his expression remains.


	48. Perfucked

Perfucked

 

The air is thick with humidity, the darkness is being drenched by the lights marking the path along the dock and the moonlight spilling through the black curtain of the sky. The water is lapping lazily against the broken cement marking the shore. There’s a party a few houses down, the music breaking through the solitude. 

He couldn’t sleep. Not for the memories or the worries or the doubts or the stiflingly humid heat or the random snores emitting from his husband. Husband. Yeah, he’s his fuckin’ husband now. Guess he sort of has been all their damn lives. Even when he wasn’t there. 

Ain’t a husband just a guy you fall in love with, guy who becomes a part of you even when you don’t want that part to exist? And maybe he’s the part that forces you to survive on those days that it’s so much easier to just give up. Maybe he’s the reason you came back from the ledge, when you heard his damn voice, so fucking desperate, ‘Mickey, please don’t do this’; when you heard it over the sound of nothingness, ‘I know it doesn’t matter to you. Right now, maybe ever again, but I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere’. When you heard it over the rushing of the burning water as it seared your flesh, ‘I’m here’. And you hear it, you hear it all the time, ‘I can tell you three things. I can tell you three things if you promise to never fucking forget them. You are so fucking strong. You are so fucking brave. And you are loved. Mickey you are loved, it’s fucking impossible not to love you.’ And yeah, you hear him every fucking night, every night, ‘I love you’. And sometimes you hear all that shit filtering into your nightmares, and it’s that, it’s that voice, the same one it’s been for your entire damn life, that voice that you come home to. Every single fucking time no matter how far you’ve gone. No matter how often you think you won’t make it back.

Mickey takes a deep breath of the scent of the lake, it ain’t got nothin’ on Lake Michigan, but it ain’t bad. Tipping back until his back is flat against the boards of the dock. Watching the stars twinkling in the sky, feeling the breeze damp on his bare arms, bare chest. The grip of the hardware don’t feel so tight anymore. The etching of the scars don’t seem so deep. And that name, the name that used to be there, the name that’s always been there, the name that will forever be there. Right there. Over the breath in his lungs and the beating of his heart. 

It ain’t perfect. It’ll never be perfect. Perfect is a lie. Perfect is for fairy tales, children’s stories. Perfect is for dreams. Perfect is for moments. Not for life. 

He shifts when he hears the sound of a person approaching. Down the stairs, clearing his throat, making all the damn noise in the world for the guy on the dock who only needs the flick of a lighter to run off for his safe place like the whole fucking world is burning down around him. Thing the idiot don’t realize, he’s the safe place. Fucker always has been. 

“You’re s’posed to be sleepin’.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “so are you,” he’s got a blanket under his arm and the damn dog is splashing her way into the lake already. 

Pulling himself to seated, watching as Ian spreads the blanket out, flattens it with his hand, the spark of his wedding band catching Mickey’s eye in the glow of the moon. He watches as he lays back, on his back, opening an arm, waiting for Mickey to settle with his head on his chest before he closes it. Boxing him in against his side, hand landing gently on his chest, over his heart. Lips meeting his hair, the fucker takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, “perfect.”

“Perfucked.”

“Tomato. Tomate.”

“Same fuckin’ thing Gallagher.”

He can hear the smile in the dope’s voice, over the sigh, through the inhale of his scent, “exactly.”

 

 

“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”   
― Lucius Annaeus Seneca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely going to use perfucked again.


	49. Truly Lived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to let Mandy close this one out.

Truly Lived

 

The late Summer breeze is whispering promises of Fall in the leaves of every tree spotting the cemetery. Sky a pale lazy blue, wispy clouds stretched thin on the horizon. 

Mandy kneels, damp grass making itself known immediately through her thin work pants. Taking a deep inhale of the Earth beneath her, the air around her, and sky above her. Waiting, eyes closing as a million words echo, a million images jockey for space in her beat-up, time-worn memories. Waiting. Until that tiny sliver of her heart is ready, ready to talk to this man in the ground beneath her. Man. Monster. Father. Brother. Husband. Abuser. Abused. Violent. Angry. Hateful. But a man. A child once. All hopeful and sparked with promise. Before, before the world or his life or his circumstances or his choices took that away from him.

“I hate you,” she whispers. Her finger rising from her side to trace the letters, granite. Letters of his name. Letters of her name.

“I’ll always hate you.”

Because the good times were few, the bad times were many and the love was gone before Mandy took her first breath in this world. 

“I’ll hate you until the day I die.”

Because she still hears it sometimes. She still feels it sometimes. This many years later. It’s still whispers, threats of violence, hatred, and death in her ears. It’s still his hand gripped down on her face, pinching her cheeks against her teeth. The stale cigarettes and beer on his breath. 

“And I’ll hate you all way through my next life.”

Because she’ll never know. She’ll never know what turned him into the things he was. She’ll never know what or who taught him to hate. She’ll never know why. And maybe that’s the part that makes her the angriest. 

Her finger completes the name etched into granite, it rises, wipes a tear off her cheek and flicks it at the stone. One. One tear is all she will ever afford him. One tear. One tear for the one time. The one time his hand was welcome, was comfort. One time. The only time. And maybe he was drunk then, and maybe he was high then, and maybe he hated then. But she didn’t know. She didn’t know in that moment. That moment after she fell on her knees, tripping over the crack in the sidewalk on the way to the bus stop. It was school picture day. The only day of the year that they wore presentable clothes and their hair was clean and their faces were scrubbed to pink. She doesn’t know, doesn’t remember why it was him, why he was walking to the bus stop with them. But when she fell, he didn’t yell at her, he didn’t growl at her. She got to her feet, with her ripped leggings, blood stained knees and palms full of gravel. Looking to him, already full of fear, expecting a heavy hand. Instead, he smiled. He smiled down at her with pride in his eyes as his hand came down on her shoulder, a tight reassuring squeeze. And maybe that’s the moment, the moment she learned that she was the only one who could pull herself up when she fell. Maybe that’s when she realized she was all she could truly rely on when she was down. And maybe it was then, it was then that he was proud of her, for the only time in her life. Maybe that counted for something. In a life of stumbled steps and scraped knees, she learned young to keep moving. To take each crack in the pavement as a challenge. To take each grain of gravel embedded in her palm as a badge of honor. To wear each scar as a prize. Each scar, internal and external, as proof, as the only proof she’d ever need of survival. Of being a survivor. 

Over the ridge and through the breeze with it’s whispers of another Summer come and gone, across the green grass starting to die back with speckled hues of yellow woven into the ground. The sun’s fading desires on the horizon speckling his back, caressing his arm where it’s reached out in front of him, hand resting on the stone. The scarred surface of his skin with the heavy grey background of the memorial for husband and wife. Her on one side, him on the other. 

She whistles, pretending it’s for Patch, the latest trainee for emotional support. Patch who will be meeting his new owner tomorrow, a little boy who spent the first five years of his life badly neglected and abused before he became property of the state for two years. His new parents, the only ones he’ll ever call ‘mom and dad’, they came into the office three months ago to start the process with Patch. Mandy’s certain they’ll be a perfect family. 

When the whistle snakes it’s way across the air and sneaks into her brother’s ears, his head turns, acknowledging her approach with a nod. At his side, her arm wraps around his waist, his drapes over her shoulder. Face turning to quickly land a kiss on the side of her head. 

“Ready?” his sigh meets her hair.

She nods, but takes a moment, an easy one, one where she doesn’t need to wait for the opening in her soul. One that’s always there, a place where the old lady lives and loves beyond her human form. The place she carries on and will for as long as these children, her children, even if they weren’t genetically connected to her, they were and are still hers; for as long as her children allow her to carry on. To keep loving. 

“Night Ms B,” his hand rises and falls on the granite, like he’s patting her little old bony shoulder.

Mandy feels herself smile, tighten her grip on her brother, “sleep tight Ms B.”

His arm is lazy on her shoulders, turning them towards the car, patting his leg with his free hand for Patch to come loping along beside them. 

Heading down the dimming Chicago streets. The familiar feel, sights, and sounds of the city they’ve spent their lives in. The streets they grew up on. The buildings they’ve been overshadowed by. The memories that are sometimes a shout, sometimes a whisper about all the things that built them. All the things that formed them. Taught them. All the things they survived. All the moments they lived. Truly lived. 

The familiar streets home. Home to the house beside the L. With the moments behind them and moments still ahead. The house with the sturdy hardwood floors, with the pristinely painted walls, the curtains hand sewed by the love of an old woman. The countertops that took them two years to stop bickering over and just make a choice. The cabinets that they paint every three years, replacing the old shell with the new but never losing the dents and scars beneath. 

The house beside the L that is filled with voices. Smiles. And laughter. A family. A family through thick and thin. Sickness and health. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout this tale is, thank fuck, told out.
> 
> I have a weird want to not let this one end. I'll probably reread it in a few weeks and find all kinds of things I hate about it. If you, my lovely friends who have made it through this one, think of anything that I glazed or you want a future look-in on this one, let me know. 
> 
> I started as Bane and I'm ending as Chandler Bing, "I'm hopeless, and awkward, and desperate for love!" So love me, please! 
> 
> I bled all over this one and hope maybe one or two of you can relate, and I'm pretty exfuckinghausted. If you can't relate, then I hope at least one sentence resonated with you. Or you can appreciate my nakedness...
> 
> I hope season ten doesn't end my love affair with Mickey, but I do hope it makes me feel okay about canon to a point where I don't have to write canon shit anymore to make myself feel better. A quick reminder here that Right There Next To You is where you can find my most even spreading of the blame and hurt, my deepest canon look-ins to understand the actions of each character, and an eventual happy ending like always.
> 
> I will finish the three open works at some point, maybe pick some more at Boys Will Be Boys. Winter is probably a great time to write a post-apo world.
> 
> Well, it took prison with a psychotic cell mate and the complete absence of anything resembling a support system to break Mickey. And it took siblings, a grandma, a few dogs, a couple kids, and a seriously out of character Ian to fix him. He ain't perfect, but he's pretty damn perfucked - exactly how we love him!
> 
> Four lines to inspire a 100k word fic:  
> "I did what I did  
> I have no regrets  
> When you cross the line  
> You get what you get."  
> Eric Church
> 
> Thanks again friends - I appreciate your company in ways I can't express. As always I hope the heavy topics were handled with the respect they deserve. You know the drill - kudos, comments, share it, light it on fire. Whatever floats your battle-worn blood-stained pirate ship :)

**Author's Note:**

> No ghost hits, kudos appreciated :)


End file.
